


The First Night

by Twisted_Barbie



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Adultery, Asexual Character, M/M, Marriage, Sexual Coercion, Unhappy Ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-01
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2019-11-07 08:44:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 24,839
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17957324
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Barbie/pseuds/Twisted_Barbie
Summary: AU. A five year romance is put to the test after a chance encounter on Dale’s busy streets.





	1. The Meeting

He couldn’t carry the bottles all at once, the crates were far too heavy and he was much too small. He smiled thinly at the seller, gathering quickly that he was unwilling to help once the money had been exchanged. He sighs wistfully; the stalls were crammed too tightly in the town square so he was unable to bring his cart close. He tucks a bottle beneath his left arm and then lifted another and turns only to immediately collide with someone. 

“Watch where you’re going you…!” His assailant exploded in a temper as he turned towards the table clutching the bottles desperately so they would not fall.

“I’m sorry,” he cries setting them down on the table and turns to look at the stranger. 

“No, it is I who should apologise, I wasn’t looking where I was going.” The assailant is a dwarf, tall for his race with long raven hair streaked with silver and piercing blue eyes beneath thick dark eyebrows. His change of demeanour is startling and he finds himself lost for words despite the obvious. 

“That’s okay, I wasn’t looking either.” Thinking that was the end of it, he turns back to the table and tucks one bottle beneath his left arm and lifts the other in his right hand. 

“So much wine, I believe you have left the city dry.” The stranger goes on. “What’s the occasion?” 

He turns with the bottles in hand. “My wedding.” He answers and turns to leave. 

“A wedding?” The stranger asks, following him. “I love weddings.” He doesn’t answer him and walks over to his cart with the stranger following him all the while. He doesn’t think anything of it, the stranger might be lonely and he could use a hand. 

“If you help me carry the wine to my cart, you may come to my wedding tomorrow.” 

“How could I refuse such an offer?” He sets the two bottles down and returns to the wine seller and picks up two more while his new-found friend easily lifts four crates. He eyes him in surprise and is met with a shrug, which causes him to smile. He liked this quirky stranger and with his help his cart would be full in no time. 

It takes four trips, he carrying two bottles at a time while his friend carries four crates and then his cart is loaded. He secures his cargo and then raises the back and slides the bolt across. “That should do it, thank you for your help. The wedding is at noon in the dwarven village behind Erebor.” 

The dwarf arches an inquisitive brow. “Your fiancée is a dwarf?” 

“My _fiancé_ is a dwarf.” He corrects and the silence that follows steadily becomes uncomfortable. He hasn’t said anything outlandish but some prejudices still exist. Fortunately, his friend doesn’t appear to be judgemental but rather thoughtful as he strokes his large coal-stained fingers over his short black beard. “Well, thank you again and I look forward to seeing you tomorrow.” He takes an apple from his pocket and walks over to his horse- Myrtle- and feeds it to her. “Oh, I never caught your name,” he calls over to find his friend gone, swallowed by the sea of people. “Never mind that then, come along Myrtle.” He takes a hold of the bridle and leads Myrtle slowly away from the busy streets of Dale. 

At the city gates he takes one last look at his list before nodding, satisfied, and leaves the town to venture up the hill towards the mountain. There’s a fork in the road half-way up, the right leading to Erebor and the left leading to the village behind Erebor. He ventures left. The village was once excess housing for the miners until house prices soared within the mountain and more and more dwarves were forced to live outside of it. When he had left the Shire, he and Bofur had planned to live within the mountain but without jobs they couldn’t afford the down payment and were forced to look for lodgings elsewhere. 

The village wasn’t so bad and even reminded him of Hobbiton on a good day. There was a great sense of community where everyone knew each other and though dwarves weren’t as sociable as hobbits they celebrated in the streets on special occasions. His wedding would be one of them. 

“Hello Bilbo,” Dori calls from behind his garden gate, sat on a bench reading a book. 

“Good evening Dori, is Bofur back yet?” 

“He returned ten minutes ago.” Dori replies confirming his suspicion that everyone watches everyone else just like in Hobbiton. “Are you looking forward to tomorrow? You either have enough drink to celebrate for a week or drown many sorrows.” 

“I’ll assure you it is the former. Will I be seeing you there tomorrow?” 

“Free food and drink, I imagine you’ll be seeing the entire village.” He laughs, mentally naming their village Dwarvington since it had never been given a name. 

“And they are very welcome to attend. I’ll see you then.” He leaves the elder grey-haired dwarf to his book and carries on up the road to the fourth house on the right. The gate falls off the second hinge as he opens it but he keeps the smile on his face as he lifts and pushes it open and leads Myrtle to the stable by the side of the house. Stable was a polite turn of phrase as it resembled more of a run-down lean-to than a stable. 

He returns to the gate to close it before releasing Myrtle from the harness. There’s a small patch of grass for her to graze on but most of the land was infertile due to dragon’s breath. He thought the story was hogwash but as he gazes forlornly at his garden where his plants refuse to grow, he thinks there is some truth to the story. 

Because his neighbours are nosey and crime is none existent because of it, he is comfortable leaving his cart by the side of the house full of food and drink. He enters his home through the pantry door and sees Bofur in the kitchen leaning over the stove wearing his sheep-skin jacket and furred hat with the upturned earflaps. 

“I’ve invited another guest.” He calls and walks through the pantry into the kitchen. 

“So that makes everyone outside of Erebor and inside it too?” Bofur teases throwing a cheeky crooked smile over his right shoulder before turning back to the stove. 

“Can you blame me for wanting to share our special day with everyone?” 

“Sharing the day is one thing, watering and feeding everyone is another.” Despite Bofur’s back to him, he lowers his head and scuffs his foot against the stone floor. 

“That’s taken care of.” He mumbles and watches Bofur’s back stiffen. He takes the pan off the stove and turns around slowly.

“Bilbo, tell me you haven’t. That money was for you.”

“It was for us.” He corrects him. Bofur was a proud dwarf who longed to give him the world not realising that his heart was enough.

“You sold your home to next to nothing because of me.” 

“Are you having pre-wedding jitters?” He asks as Bofur is rarely morose. The day they had met he had found the dwarf sodden and shivering from the cold tucked up beneath his oak tree for cover while helplessly sucking on a pipe that had long since been extinguished by the rain. He was lost and hungry and hadn’t a penny to his name but he was smiling unbothered by it all. It was a chance encounter that had changed his life and made him re-evaluate everything. So, to hear him speaking so negatively is unnerving. 

“No, if there’s one thing I know for sure it’s that I want to marry you, Bilbo Baggins.” He approaches his fiancé then, and reaches out to him only for Bofur to shy away from his touch. It’s a common occurrence, as he is a tactile creature while Bofur is not. He had simply taken leave of his senses but even so, each time Bofur shies away from him a dull ache swells within his chest. 

“What are you cooking?” He asks to change the subject and hide the hurt. 

“Me mam’s famous meat balls.” Bofur answers returning the pan to the stove. He longs to put his arms around him and press a kiss against his neck but he refrains from acting on instinct. 

“When we’re married will I finally get the recipe?” 

“Maybe,” Bofur teases and winks a hazel eye. 

“How about we heat that up later and we go celebrate our marriage prematurely.” Bofur’s shoulder stiffen again.

“Bilbo…” he says his name in warning and sighs which is echoed by a sigh of his own. 

“You can’t blame me for trying.” He quips. It was a long-shot, he knew but it was worth a try. For five years he had been denied the pleasure of seeing, touching or tasting Bofur’s body and he hungered for him in a way he had never felt before.

“Can you wait just one more day?” 

He pretends to mull it over. “For you, I’d wait a thousand years.” 

“Tomorrow should suffice.”

“Tomorrow it is then.” It seems strange arranging a day to make love but he hadn’t entered this relationship virginal while Bofur had and he respected his beliefs. 

“Is there something you need to be doing? Dinner won’t be for a while yet.” 

“I suppose I could go over a few things with Dori. Are you sure you don’t want me to sleep over at his house tonight? They say it’s unlucky to see the groom in the morning.”

“Who says?” Bofur asks with a laugh. “You and your Shire superstitions. We’ve shared a bed for five years, one more day won’t change anything.” They share a bed but no more than that as they both cling to their side of the mattress. He nods in agreement. 

“I’ll be back in half an hour.” He calls, returning to the pantry door and then leaves. His cart is as he has left it and he walks out of the gate, muttering under his breath as the hinge gives out again and then he walks down the street to talk to Dori once more.


	2. The Hand Fasting

Bilbo stood by the last chair on the first row on his right and nervously toyed with his waistcoat. His brass buttons were polished to a perfect shine, his white cravat was neatly tied and his shirt and trousers were both ironed. His honeyed curls were wild and untameable on top of his head but the thatch of hair on his large hobbit feet was brushed almost straight by the lotion he used to give the dirty blond hairs a fetching shine. 

He looks out towards the rows of chairs, not one chair the same, each one brought from a neighbouring house. It’s haphazard but beautiful in its arbitrary design. There are thirteen rows with twenty chairs each. Ten each side of the aisle which was made of wilted rose petals that were dried and curled and crunched underfoot. He didn’t mind, he appreciated the thought. 

Their little village was a hive of activity and it warmed his heart to see. Most were taking their seats now, some dressed in their finery while others were covered in soot having just returned from the mines. He appreciated them the most for choosing to celebrate his love rather than catch up on much needed sleep. The villagers were hard grafters, and proud but they were not rich, so when he saw them bring items of food or drink to the tables beyond, he was ashamed to be surprised and he was overjoyed that he finally had a place where he belonged. 

It was not so in the beginning, he had tried to find work in Erebor kitchens but was turned away because of his race. He was more than qualified than the other candidates but he did not have a beard and was shown the door. Later he found work in Dale as a baker’s assistant, the hours were terrible and the pay was only marginally better but needs must. It meant he saw Bofur far less than he would have liked to but he fed their sorrow on sweet treats that he was given each night if they did not sell. 

He takes a deep breath and tries to keep his hands from fidgeting. It’s just nerves, he reminds himself as his breaths are shallow as if he cannot fill his lungs. He looks around once more for a distraction and notices sixty percent of the seats are taken while others still mill around, talking or stand further in the background arranging the food. 

His eyes are drawn to the back row four seats from the aisle on the left where the stranger from yesterday sits, squashed between two hefty dwarves. The nameless stranger tilts his head back in an up-nod of acknowledgement and he waves back. He isn’t entirely surprised to see him but he is surprised by the effort the dwarf has gone to. He cannot remember his attire from the day before as he was too fearful of having the stranger knock his head off his shoulders than to look at what he was wearing. Now it appears that the quality of his clothes are sadly more extravagant than the ones he currently wears. The dwarf is seated and far away so he can only see a deep blue velvet surcoat with silver embroidery along the lapel. He isn’t affronted by his choice of wardrobe, he’d left that sort of pettiness in the Shire. Some were more fortunate than others and despite their differences his friend had took the time out of his day to celebrate with him and that mattered more than velvet or threadbare cotton. 

In his peripheral vision he sees there seems to be an issue by the punch bowl. It could be nothing but that bowl had belonged to his mother and he would rather see that it remains in one piece. He walks over unhurriedly and his face falls as they begin to scuffle so very close to the table but by the time he arrives tempers have simmered and the dwarves are apologising to each other. He breathes a sigh of relief until he is accosted as arms loop around his neck.

“Bilbo!” Bofur cries joyfully and he melts against him. Bofur is not one for overly affectionate embraces so he enjoys the rarity of the moment. “The King is here.” Bofur whispers excitedly and steps away, dropping his arms to his sides. He’s wearing his sheepskin coat and his work trousers and boots that have been polished to a perfect shine and as always, his old fur hat with the upturned earflaps. He wouldn’t be without it and he couldn’t imagine him without it as it was a gift from his late father. His dark hair has been braided in two flawless plaits without a single hair out of place unlike his usual messy braids and his handlebar moustache has been combed and lays flat rather than curled at the very ends. 

“Why is the King here?” He asks and Bofur eyes him sceptically. 

“He says you invited him.” The moment escapes him but it was not beyond the realm of possibility that he had indeed invited the King of Erebor. When Bofur had finally said yes to his proposal he was so overjoyed he would have invited the world. In the beginning he was inviting anyone and everyone and if the King had crossed his path then he would have gotten an invitation by proxy rather than position given that he had never met the King before and would not know him by looking at him. 

“My gift to you.” It’s a white lie but the smile it brings to Bofur’s face- like the sun awakening- is worth the deceit. Bofur hugs him once more and his sin is forgotten. He had invited the King accidentally but he had come and he knew how much that meant to Bofur, so he would not ruin the illusion that it was anything other than intentional. 

A flute begins to play and Bofur’s arms drop to his sides once more and he is able to turn. The seats are full and Ori stands by the old tree stump in the centre before the first row to officiate. Had he known he had invited the King he would have asked him to officiate but his presence here was a good omen. 

He reaches for Bofur’s hand and when his gesture is not reciprocated, he links their arms instead and they begin to walk down the aisle with dried petals crunching beneath their feet. Ori is Dori’s youngest brother and the one with the most potential. Dori and Nori, who was currently playing the flute, slaved all hours to make a better life for Ori so in turn he can make a fortune and look after them in their twilight years. Dori was smart but he had never reached his full potential as their father died while Ori was still in the womb and then his mother passed weeks after giving birth. Dori had to be brother, father and mother, giving up his chance to be a scholar in the great libraries of Erebor to raise his brothers without complaint. 

They make it to the front and Nori ceases to play and takes a seat. Ori is taller than himself and Bofur but not by much. He has a lithe figure hidden by hand-me down robes and his dirty blond hair is shaped in a bowl-cut. His mouth is oddly shaped, too small for his face and his wide brown eyes speak of sheltered innocence. 

“Bilbo and Bofur have chosen a traditional hand fasting ceremony to symbolise their entering into the bonds of marriage.” Ori announces and lifts the four-foot red ribbon from the stump, proof that once long ago there was vegetation and growth this side of the mountain. “Bilbo and Bofur, this ribbon is a symbol of the connection between your two lives. As your hands are tied together by this ribbon, so too, will your lives be bound together in marriage.” Ori walks around the stump, holding the ribbon high so their guests may see as Bofur takes his hand. 

Ori very carefully binds their hands together and he can’t help but emit a shaky breath. It was silly but this was the longest a prolonged touch had lasted between them and he relished it even if Bofur’s palm was sweaty and made his own hand clammy. 

“These are the hands that will love you.  
These are the hands that will hold and comfort you through the years.  
These are the hands that will give you support and encouragement.  
These are the hands you will each work with, create with, and use to build a life together.  
The knots of this binding are not formed by these cords but instead by the promises you make in your hearts and uphold each day through your actions.  
Remember, you hold in your own hands the making or breaking of this union.”

“Just as your hands are now bound together, so too, are your lives.  
Because you cannot always be physically joined together, you will each give to the other a wedding ring to symbolise that connection. It will be worn on your hand as a constant reminder of the bond shared between you as a married couple.” 

Carefully Ori removes the ribbon without untying it and he and Bofur turn towards one another and exchange iron rings. They could not afford the luxury of gold or even silver but that mattered little as they sealed their unity with a chaste kiss to the roar of the crowd. 

What came next was a blur of congratulations, music, food and merry making. He and Bofur sat back from it all, overwhelmed, but they sneaked a bottle of wine to share between them as they watched their neighbours celebrate their joy from the back row of the gathered seating. 

“Will you dance with your husband, Bofur Baggins?” He asks, and bolstered by alcohol, he stands and holds his hand out while Bofur laughs. 

“Now I didn’t agree to take your last name, did I?” Bofur asks, vaguely confused. He stands without taking his hand. 

“What would I be called then? Bilbo Bofur? Bilbo Ur?” He muses. 

“How about mine?” Bofur smiles devilishly, all crooked teeth on display, making him long to taste his lips. Against his better judgement he leans in for a kiss only for Bofur to stiffen and look over his shoulder. He aborts the attempt and turns around and sees his friend from yesterday approach to no doubt congratulate them both. 

“Ah Bofur, this is…” he turns to address his husband only to find Bofur bowed in reverence. “You’re not,” he didn’t mean to say it aloud but the King offers him a winning smile. 

“I am.” His mind is blank on proper etiquette. Technically King Thorin is not his King but he is a King and commands respect. Adding to that, he is the King and owner of the mountain he lived on the side of and his husband was a dwarf who had sworn allegiance to him. He bows his head in respect quite sure the drink makes him curtsey. 

“It is an honour to have you attend our wedding, my King.” Bofur sounds in awe and he is so thankful for their chance encounter yesterday so he could bring this joy to his husband. 

“The honour is all mine.” Thorin replies magnanimously with a short shallow bow of his own. “As is the honour of the first night.” The colour drains from Bofur’s face as he still tries to understand the King’s words. He is not as accustomed to alcohol as Bofur is and the little he has consumed has left him dazed. 

“What?” He stupidly asks. 

“You did not request my permission to wed but you did so regardless and outside of one’s own race.” His jaw drops. He wasn’t unfamiliar with prejudice but to hear it from such a powerful figure was daunting. “It would be remiss of me to not require some form of compensation.” There are not enough words to justify his outrage and his alcohol-addled mind keeps him from the words he does know. 

“Please,” he cries desperately. Bofur shies away from his touch and they have been together for five years. He can’t imagine what the King’s unwanted touch would do to him. He hadn’t realised he had shed any tears until the King wipes one from his cheek. 

“Don’t be nervous, I’ll be gentle.” The King croons softly to him and brushes his fingers through his hair. 

“Me?” He gasps, surprised. He had thought that the King was a bigot and was making an example out of Bofur. 

The King steps forward, invading his space and presses against him, allowing him to feel the expensive material of his clothing and the scorching heat from his body. “You should have watched where you were going.” He whispers heatedly into his ear and nips his lobe for good measure. He’s given no time to react as the King grabs his arm that was bound to Bofur’s only hours before and pulls him. 

“Stop!” Bofur yells, and attempts to break the King’s iron grip. Their struggle has caught the attention of two burly dwarves but to his horror he realises they were the same two the King was sat between and very likely his security. 

“Bofur, no.” He calmly says as the burly dwarves approach. “It’s just one night.”

“But it’s our night.” Bofur says with tears in his eyes. 

“I know, but we’ll have other nights, every night after. He just gets one and I promise you it will be rubbish.” The King gives out a startled loud laugh at that and holds his wrist tighter. He’s offended him. Good. 

“Time to go.” The King practically growls and his grip on his wrist makes him wince. He allows the King to pull him away as his two goons prevent Bofur from following after them. He should be grateful that the King chose to walk down the side-streets rather than past the revellers but there is not much good will left in his heart. 

He had heard many tales about the King of Erebor but no one ever said that he was an asshole.


	3. The First Night

He doesn’t pay attention to their journey to the mountain or even inside it. He can’t focus on anything but the anger coursing through his veins and the tension in his body that makes him practically vibrate in fury. Anger isn’t foreign to him, but the intensity of it is. He hadn’t even been this incensed when Lobelia Sackville-Baggins had broken into his home on his thirty-first birthday and stole all of his silver spoons. 

Their pace slows eventually and to his horror he realises the King’s grip had loosened on his wrist and that they were holding hands. He drops it as if burned and the King merely arches a brow and opens the door in front of him. It’s a bedroom, he can see the bed. The King stands in the doorway beckoning him inside, forcing him to press against him to enter the room. 

“I don’t know why you’re doing this.” He states after watching the King turn the key in the door. The King ignores him in favour of removing his thick silver belt. “I’m not a virgin,” he proudly admits. “If you looked upon my virginity as some kind of prize you are sadly mistaken.” He taunts while choosing to keep Bofur’s virginity a secret. 

He was proud of himself for an entire second before the King laughed, dropped his belt onto the floor and turned his head to look at him. “I knew that.” He replies smugly and his shoulders slump in defeat. “No virgin would look upon me as you did.” Thorin continues with a false admission that leaves him stunned. 

He hadn’t looked at the King- then just a common dwarf- in such a way. He rarely gifts Bofur such a look as it makes him uncomfortable. The King shrugs as if hearing his inner turmoil and begins to unbutton his deep blue surcoat. He hadn’t even noticed what the dwarf was wearing yesterday so he finds it difficult to believe the dwarf’s words. He finds Thorin difficult to believe at all. 

Thorin lays his surcoat over the chest at the end of the bed leaving him in a blue cotton shirt a shade lighter than the coat. He doesn’t mean to look but he refuses to look around the bedroom and be reminded of what he does not have. They are just possessions, what he had at home far exceeded their value. 

When he desires to look upon the King again is when he becomes unnerved and begins to question himself. What if the King was telling the truth and he had looked at him in such a way? Something motivated the King to act as he has and he can’t imagine it was done out of pettiness and spite. Like Bofur, the King has long dark hair and dark facial hair and he is a dwarf, perhaps that was what he was attracted to and he reacted unknowingly. The King wasn’t unattractive, very far from it, and yet he was sure that was the last thing on his mind when they had met. 

Thorin pulls his shirt off over his head and it is a chore to keep his jaw from hitting the floor. The King was gorgeous, his body was a canvas of hard muscle beneath alabaster skin. His wide chest was decorated with dark hair that led down over his stomach and tight abdominals and further still. His leather trousers hung low revealing the defined V shape of his hips and a dark thatch of hair. His eyes dipped lower to the prominent bulge contained by the leather before he looked away with a blush staining his cheeks. 

“Your turn,” the King whispers, voice like rolling thunder and he shakes his head, no. 

His denial is hesitant rather than defiant as a show of respect for Bofur. The King had the power to dissolve their marriage and imprison Bofur and perhaps even himself. If not, he could still banish him from the village and depending on his influence over Dale, he could lose his job and be banished from the city too. 

The King’s face darkens and there’s a storm in his eyes from the rebuff. “You don’t have to do this.” He whispers desperately as the King approaches. His words hadn’t worked so far, so he was unsurprised as they failed once more to deter the King. 

The King is no more than a head taller than him but stood quaking in his shadow he could have been ten foot tall. Thorin inclines his head and plucks carefully at his brass buttons while biting down on his lower lip in concentration. It was possibly a mannerism he was unaware of but it sent a shiver down his spine because of the dedication of his touch and the burning desire in his eyes. Bofur had never looked at him in that way and never would. Bofur loved him, he never questioned his devotion but Bofur did not desire him.

His green waistcoat becomes undone and Thorin pushes it off his shoulders and allows it to spill onto the floor to puddle by the heel of his feet. The King’s fingers move to his cravat next and deftly untie the knot and he pulls the soft white material from around his neck to drape it over his own shoulder. 

“I’ll restrain you with that later.” The King promises in a husky whisper before pressing their lips together before his knees could weaken. His lips remain still beneath the King’s venturing ones and his heart begins to pound in his chest as the King’s fingers- nimble for their size- begin to unbutton his shirt. 

The King’s patience is mesmerizing as he remains faithful to his earlier promise to be gentle. Hands that could crush bone and bruise flesh slowly open his shirt and push the material over his shoulders and down his arms to the floor. He crosses his arms over his chest self-conscious about his plump stomach especially compared to Thorin’s chiselled body. 

Thorin ends his kiss and lifts his chin when he does not meet his eyes. “You are beautiful.” He looks at him then, as if seeing him for the first time. He was no mad King intent on ravishing him, he was just a dwarf as flawed as any other. “I thought it yesterday when we met. Such a beautiful creature, neglected perhaps, how could you be happy with him when your eyes yearn for me? I yearn for you too.” Thorin then takes hold of his left wrist and brings his hand to his crotch allowing him to feel his desperation for him. His fingers twitch to feel the length of him and his own trousers tighten to contain his own arousal. “I wanted you then, I have you now.” 

He moves quick for a dwarf of his size and lifts him with ease in the traditional bridal carry. He laughs in response, hiding his blushing face behind his hands as Thorin carries him to the bed. The sheets feel expensive against his naked back as Thorin lays him down and then climbs on top of him, bracing himself above him as his white cravat slips from his shoulder to land beside him on the mattress. He looks up at him and his vision is tunnelled by the framing of his hair that hangs down in soft waves and gently caresses his cheeks. 

Bofur never wears his hair down, though he sometimes wished he would. Even in bed his hair is braided and he has to wonder if he would have worn it down tonight and would he have been staring up into striking hazel eyes instead of piercing blue. His expression sours for the comparison and the King narrows his eyes. 

“What’s wrong?” He asks leaning back and throwing his hair over one shoulder. He’s gorgeous, but he’s not Bofur. 

“You ruined my evening.” He snaps unsure of the reaction he was trying to provoke. The King grins in reply but there is no charm in it. It is a nasty grin, self-absorbed, one that proves he delights in the misery of others.

“Allow me to make it up to you.” He steals a quick kiss from his lips and then presses another against the column of his throat and then another further down. His beard scratching against his skin is an erotic irritant like the touch of a feather against naked flesh and he shivers despite his best efforts not to and feels the King smile against his skin. 

His trousers are still on like a last line of defence but they are tented and wet with arousal. He had forgone underclothes in his desire to be with Bofur and now his eagerness has acted against him revealing his desperation to the King. 

The King continues to press soft kisses down his chest, each one lingering longer than before. His skin feels as if it is on fire, overstimulated by the scratch of Thorin’s beard, the graze of his fingertips, the press of lips softer than a rose petal and the silky caress of his hair. With a wicked flick of his tongue inside his bellybutton the King sits up and begins to unbutton his trousers. 

He allows him to without difficulty. His compliance was necessary but his desire was not and he turns his head away ashamed of himself for craving the King on his wedding day. He knocks a tear from his eye as the King removes his trousers and takes a moment to stroke the hair on his feet that had been lotioned and groomed for his husband to admire, not for him. 

He hadn’t known what to expect next and a ragged moan is forced from his throat as the King takes the head of his penis into the warm cavern of his mouth. His hips arch forward and the King’s rumbling chuckle sends bolts of pleasure skittering up his spine. He squeezes his eyes shut, lost in sensation. The heat of the King’s mouth is unbearable and the stroke of his tongue is mind-numbing. He licks his lips finding his mouth dry as a chorus of sounds leave his lips as his squirming hips are held down by large strong hands. He had boasted earlier about not being a virgin but he had never experienced intense pleasure like this. In his youth it was sloppy kisses and quick fumbles, he had never entertained the thought of using his mouth, it was just not done in the Shire. 

The first bob of Thorin’s head is his undoing and he orgasms without warning, filling the King’s mouth with his seed. He expects him to pull away and berate him but the King does neither and his body shivers as he feels the King swallow around his cock. He should be repulsed but rather he is titillated by the depravity of it. 

Eventually the King moves his mouth away from his spent cock and slowly licks his glistening lips in self-satisfaction. He crawls up his body and presses his lips against his own, allowing him to taste himself on his tongue. It’s unpleasant but he sucks on the King’s tongue as if it were the sweetest nectar, excited by the sexual deviancy of the act that came before it. 

The King pulls away and as he chases his mouth he is soundly pushed down onto the mattress while the King fumbles for something beside the bed. It’s a clay pot and he coats his fingers on his right hand with the substance inside it before returning it. Then the King is above him again while his wet right hand travels up his inner thigh. 

“No,” he protests, shaking his head in denial. 

The King’s left-hand fists in his hair holding his head still. “Yes,” Thorin contradicts him and silences him with a kiss that is more forceful than the ones previous. His hand moves greedily up his thigh until a finger circles his opening before pushing inside. It’s a slow exploration to both prepare and arouse him and he’s grateful for that. Thorin is strong and could take whatever he wants but the hand in his hair only holds rather than pulls and the kiss is as dominant as the dwarf himself. 

His protests die on his tongue and he wonders if Thorin could taste the insincerity of them. His arms lay uselessly by his sides and his lifts his left and runs his fingers through Thorin’s dark thick hair while his right-hand cups Thorin’s shoulder and then travels down his back. He can feel his muscles move like an erotic dance beneath the skin and then he moves lower to the dip of his spine and then to the curve of his posterior. Thorin hadn’t removed his own trousers yet and he aches for him knowing how hard he was as his hips move rhythmically against his thigh. 

A second finger enters him quickly followed by a third as he becomes impatient. He’s been amazed by Thorin’s self-restraint and he allows him his impatience as he pats his backside and nods into the kiss trying to convey the message that he is ready. 

His hints seem to get through the fog of Thorin’s mind as he breaks the kiss and removes his fingers. He has to climb off him to remove his trousers and he shamelessly watches him bare all. He can’t compare him to Bofur as he has never seen his husband topless nevermind naked. He has also never seen his husband’s eyes heavy-lidded as he looks upon him sprawled naked on the bed while he strokes his long heavy cock flushed red with arousal. 

He had only orgasmed minutes ago but already he feels a stirring low in his stomach as he watches the King watching him. He isn’t Bofur, and maybe that’s why his heart beats faster and his breath is shallow. Thorin is the polar opposite of Bofur, he’s cold while Bofur is warm. He’s cunning while Bofur is honest. He desires him sexually while Bofur does not. 

He thought that he was okay with their relationship. He thought he did not need physical contact to be in a healthy relationship but five years without a single kiss on the cheek has reduced him to this. Thorin might have been telling the truth. In the town square it was possible that his eyes yearned for him as his body now does. He’s beautiful, he must have noticed. Something buried deep inside himself must have cried out to him.

Thorin returns to the bed and he parts his legs for him. He could turn and get onto all fours but he has no desire to be taken in that position. He wants Thorin on top of him. He wants to see every nuance of his face. He wants to look him in the eye as he orgasms and he wants to taste and swallow every bated breath and sigh of pleasure and keep it as his own. 

“Eager,” Thorin teases with a satisfied smile revealing a row of straight white teeth. Another dissimilar attribute to Bofur. He lifts his hips and enters him and while it is not painful it is uncomfortable. He braces his hands on the King’s shoulders finding the act of putting his arms around his neck too intimate and watches his face. His eyes are closed and sweat has gathered on his brow. His head is slightly dipped and his pale lips are pressed tightly together as he continues to press into his body. 

He’s careless when he’s fully sheathed, and grabs his thighs encouraging him to wrap his legs around his waist as he leans over him once more. He claims his lips in a possessive kiss as he begins to move his hips. Slow at first, slowly finding a rhythm. He thought he would be harsh and cruel, holding him down on the mattress and taking what he wanted and he feels guilty for the thought since Thorin is a selfless and generous lover. 

He both loves and loathes the way Thorin explores his body finding what they both like, taking his time to slowly withdraw from his body only to push back in, finding a deeper angle that makes his toes curl. His kisses are deep and explorative too, leaving him feeling exposed as if there is nothing more to uncover. 

He’s almost thankful when Thorin’s hips move faster and his thrusts become shorter. He breaks the kiss so he can sit up and hold his hips pulling him down to meet each thrust. He feels like a rag-doll as the King uses him as he pleases and he’s more turned-on by it than he has any right to be. 

Thorin has been relatively quiet up until now as a litany of breathy curses leaves his lips. The hands on his hips become bruising in their intensity and then Thorin’s thrusts became disjointed as his hips stutter and he feels his essence spill inside him. A second orgasm overtakes him then, weak in comparison to his first but just as satisfying as the King rides out his orgasm in a wave of short thrusts, mouth open and face flushed. He’s never looked more attractive. He reaches out to him, cupping his bearded jaw, marvelling at the beauty above him. He can’t imagine the expression on his own face but it makes the King laugh nervously before he draws his thumb into his mouth with his tongue and shamelessly sucks on it. 

The stare they share is intense and he begins to regret touching the King’s face as it appeared far more intimate than he intended it to be. With one last lick to the pad of his thumb, Thorin releases his thumb and slowly withdraws from his body. He climbs off the bed and walks across the room over towards a pitcher with one glass beside it. 

He sits up and looks at his clothes strewn all over the floor. “Can I go now?” He asks hesitantly, dropping his feet to the floor as Thorin’s back stiffens. He pours water in the glass and then turns to face him. 

“I am owed the first _night_ and the moon is still up so no.” He wants to argue but he knows it is a lost cause and instead he looks around the room. Red carpet, plain stone walls with a plethora of weapons mounted on woodwork or in glass cases. There are golden breastplates encrusted with jewels and in the far corner a golden crown within a glass case. 

He turns to Thorin surprised. “Is this your bedroom?” He tries to keep the surprise from his voice but fails miserably. Thorin finishes his drink and pours another and lifts the glass but does not drink from it. 

“Yes?” It sounds more like a question than an answer and he’s unsure how to reply. Thorin saves him by walking over and offering him the glass he drank from. Considering all the things they had done with each other he takes it without complaint and drinks his fill before returning it. There’s only a mouthful left but Thorin drinks it and places the glass down on the bedside table and climbs onto the bed once more, dropping down beside him onto his back. 

“Erm…” he stares at Thorin unsure and the dwarf sighs. 

“Lay down, hobbit.” Cautiously he brings his feet up onto the bed and lies at the very edge of the mattress. 

“Lay down with me.” He doesn’t have a chance to reply as Thorin grabs his arm and pulls him so he is pressed against his side, arm thrown over his chest and head cradled by his right arm. 

“Are you sure?”

“Shhhhh,” Thorin silences him and his fingers play with the curls above his ear. A rush of questions run through his mind but he gives voice to none of them and relaxes in the King’s arms.

He does not fall asleep and neither does Thorin. Instead he simply traces the King’s tattoos, ugly little blemishes against his gorgeous skin. Bofur might have tattoos and he wonders if they would be half as ridiculous as the King’s. He ignores the thought in favour of exploring the King’s chest and luxuriates in the ability to touch without rebuff. 

Eventually Thorin captures his hand and brings it to his lips and presses kisses to the explorative digits. “You like to touch,” Thorin states. “Boomer is one lucky dwarf.” 

“Bofur,” he corrects. “And let’s not talk about him.” He turns the King’s face with his captured hand and steals a kiss from his pliant lips. “You won’t let me go, what do you intend to do to me?” He’s flirting with the King of Erebor, he realises.

“Anything I want.” The King practically growls. He throws his leg over and climbs on top of Thorin and settles on his stomach. 

“And what do you want?” He asks. He feels different, as if he has woken from a five-year sleep. He leans down to whisper in his ear. “My King.” He adds and nips the lobe as Thorin did earlier to him. 

“You.” It’s such a simple answer but it sends a shiver down his spine. “I want you.” Thorin reiterates possibly having seen his reaction to that admission. “Just like this,” he says griping his hips that feel tender beneath his rough touch. “Riding me. I want you to cum just from having my cock inside you.” He can’t find his voice to answer him and just nods in agreement. “Do you need more oil?” He shakes his head, no, as he was still wet from the King’s seed. “One more thing,” Thorin says and takes hold of his wrists. He looks down as he feels soft material being woven around them and finds it is his own cravat. “Now you’re my prisoner.” The bindings are loose, he could free his hands if he so desired but he liked the idea of being a prisoner held against his will. In a way, he is but his new desire to be here is morally ambiguous. 

It’s harder to navigate around the King’s body without the use of his hands and the idea of binding him that was so full of promise is slowly being revealed as the bad idea that it is. Another false start and he feels his cheeks heat from embarrassment and arousal as he writhes on top of the King attempting to impale himself. Thankfully Thorin takes pity on him due to his own sexual frustration rather than charity and grips the base of his cock as he guides him down with his left hand on his hip. 

The blunt pressure against his opening meant he had found his mark and he pushed back until the thick head was inside him. He sat back allowing gravity to assist as he sunk further down Thorin’s hard cock, his stomach knotting in anxiety while Thorin moved his hands to grasp the headboard to keep from reaching for him. He looked wild and beautiful beneath him, clinging onto the frayed edges of his control. It was enough encouragement to see away his anxiety and he allowed himself to be fully impaled and he held still feeling both full and strangely powerful.

He rolled his hips experimentally delighting in Thorin’s deep satisfied moans. He did it again and his eyes fluttered closed as Thorin’s cock brushed his prostate. He held his position and ground on his lap adjusting to the girth of the cock inside him that was rubbing deliciously against nerve endings and threatening to send him insane from the sheer pleasure of it. 

The first rise of his hips was short, no more than an inch and he felt Thorin’s hip surge upwards as he came back down pushing deeply inside him. He tried again when he had gathered what little was left of his wits and enjoyed the way Thorin thrust up his hips to meet him. He managed to build up a rhythm rising no more than three or four inches and being soundly fucked on the way down. Thorin’s moans where like rumbling thunder whilst his own were higher in pitch and filled with need. 

He braced his bound hands on Thorin’s stomach as he quickened his pace watching the King watching him. His gaze was intense, curiosity mixed with disbelief as if he had imagined him. His own gaze must reflect want so tangible he could reach out and touch it. It was a heady experience being watched like that, as if there was nothing else, just him. Bofur had never looked at him in that way and he knew Bofur loved him. 

A stinging slap to his posterior awakens him from his musings. “Focus on me.” The King orders as if aware of his thoughts drifting towards Bofur. When he slaps him again, he raises a brow in query. “You liked it.” Thorin answers and waits for a rebuttal that does not come. He had liked it. 

Watching the King of Erebor come undone beneath him was an experience. His body was a work of art glistening with sweat and writhing on the bed, muscles taut and hands white as he gripped the headboard tightly. He wanted to tease him and bring him to the brink of ecstasy only to draw him back until he was a wanton mess ready to burst out of his skin.

His own orgasm takes him by surprise and he falls forward sharing the same breath as the King. This close, he can hear every hitched breath and sound of pleasure. The King wasn’t very vocal but that only meant every sound he did make was earned. Thorin’s hips hadn’t stopped undulating beneath him, fucking him steadily, taking control from beneath him. He feels the King’s cock pulsate as he orgasms, filling him with his seed once more. 

He throws his bound arms around Thorin’s neck and kisses him deeply as it could be their last as he was unsure of the time. Thorin returns his kiss with the same ardour and releases his wrists from their bindings. 

“Is this goodbye?” He asks. 

“It’s goodnight, get some rest.” The King pulls out of him and pushes him off to turn on his side away from him as if to sleep. He stares at his back in disbelief. 

“Good night.” He finally says and climbs between the sheets as Thorin lays above them too tired to argue.


	4. The Day After

He was warm, he noticed upon awakening. His arm wasn’t hung over the edge of the mattress exposed to the cold and the sheets surrounding his naked body were of a far better quality than his mother’s knitted blankets. He and Bofur used three blankets, one each and one between them that always went unused as they were too far apart. It was never enough to keep out the biting cold as there was a hole in the roof and the front door was warped by weather and age. 

The pillow beneath his head is comfortable and overstuffed with feathers but there is something more, something soft that tickles his nose. He turns his head-pressing his face against the softness and opens his eyes. Black as dark as coal fills his vision and as he lifts his head, he sees that he has made a nest of Thorin’s hair and the strands have become tangled and knotted beneath his head. 

The King rests beside him beneath the covers, laid flat on his back with his head turned away allowing his hair to spill over both pillows. They aren’t touching but it doesn’t feel as if there is a gaping chasm between them as it does when he shares a bed with Bofur. He bridges the gap between them and presses himself against the dwarf’s left side and gently rests his head on his shoulder. 

Thorin does not stir even when he rests his hand over his beating heart and traces the tattoo above it. He lifts his head and looks at the King’s face. Relaxed in slumber his features are soft and his lips are slightly parted to emit each sweet breath. He looks innocent and he knows first-hand how false that it. He’s not a monster but he isn’t a good dwarf either. The things his mouth has done, in word and deed, prove both his deceptiveness and his depravity. He wouldn’t make a good friend but he would be a terrible enemy. 

Despite knowing all of that, he gently strokes his hand down the King’s chest. It’s only practise, he tells himself. He wants to bring Bofur the most pleasure, because that is who truly had his heart, Bofur, sat at home with the warped door and the hole in the roof. That was home and that was where his heart was. This thing with the King is nothing, just a power trip for an egomaniac and he won’t suffer from it, he’ll learn from it. 

He doesn’t know when Thorin slipped between the sheets, as he remembered he was atop them when he had given in to sleep. He hadn’t dressed, he learns that much as his hand reaches between his legs. His cock is flaccid as he takes it into his hand and begins to stroke, all the while watching the King’s face. He continues to sleep undisturbed, he would have thought he would be a light sleeper given his position but even in slumber he is arrogant. A dwarf with no equal and aware of it. The world was his playground and as for himself, well, he was simply caught in his sandbox building castles. The bully stomped on them but they could be rebuilt, better, stronger. Sometimes a bully is necessary to reveal a weakness his victim might not have been aware of. You don’t fix something that you don’t realise is broken. 

His grip is too dry but the oil is too far away. He considers his options and eventually brings his right hand up to spit in his palm with a grimace. Considering what the King has done, it is hardly the same and he returns his hand, teasingly running his finger down the underside before taking a firmer hold and begins to stroke. 

The King still does not awaken even as his cock hardens under his manipulative touch. He continues, listening to the soft moans of pleasure that leave the King’s lips as he plays with his body. He can’t bring himself to stop as he reaches down and caresses the heavy drawn-up sac and returns back to the shaft, spreading pre-cum down his length to stroke him faster. 

With a groan the King spends himself in his hand and his blue eyes flutter open as a satisfied smile crosses his lips. “Hello to you too.” Thorin teases, voice rough from sleep and stretches his arms above his head. He rubs his thumb over the head of Thorin’s cock, collecting the cum there and then runs his thumb across the King’s lower lip before chasing it with his tongue and kissing the King soundly on the lips. “I was right about you.” Thorin says as the kiss ends and they part for breath. “You’re filthy.” He isn’t. He was well-respected in the Shire even when he ran away to live with a dwarf. His reputation was impeccable but this dwarf, this King, makes him take leave of his senses and do things no good hobbit should. “I think you’ll need a shower before you go.” 

“A shower?” He asks, unfamiliar with the word. 

“You could stay as you are if you so wish, I wouldn’t mind it. Coming home to you laid naked in my bed, wet with my seed and wanton for more is enough to make me consider marriage but I don’t think your _husband_ would like it.” He ignores the way he spat the word ‘husband’ as if it were revolting on his tongue and gathers shower means a wash. 

“I’ll have a shower.” He agrees and follows Thorin off the bed and into the adjoining bathroom expecting to find a bathtub but finds a cubicle instead. He stands still dumbfounded for a moment as Thorin walks behind the tinged glass and turns the tap and water rains down upon him. It’s genius and a true feat of dwarven ingenuity. The floor behind the glass is sloped so the water spills down the drain instead of puddling on the floor. 

“Are you just going to stare or are you going to join me?” Thorin asks but his tone suggests that he wouldn’t be opposed to him staring and he might even potentially put on a show for him. He decides to join him not wishing to have any lasting memories of this encounter and Thorin immediately pulls him under the spray. 

It’s easier to share than a bath and they both clean themselves off using the lotions, briefly fighting for the spray before taking it in turns to rinse the suds off. The water remains warm as he presses his back against Thorin’s chest and feels the dwarf’s hair- longer now that it was wet- spill down his own shoulders as he kisses his neck. He leans his head back, exposing his throat for Thorin’s hungry mouth as the dwarf’s hands begin to explore his body, rubbing over his shoulders and down his arms. He is pressed flush against him and he can feel his flaccid penis press between his cheeks as his own cock swells with interest. 

It’s more intimate than sexual and he longs to have a shower installed in his own home so he could experience this closeness with Bofur. He feels safe wrapped in the King’s powerful arms-engulfed- held possessively by arms that could have been chiselled from stone. His touches are like worshipful caresses, greedily gliding over damp skin, inspiring a lust in him that had laid dormant for many years. It is a relief when the King finally takes him in hand and with three firm strokes, he spills himself in the King’s hand and watches his seed disappear down the drain. 

The water turns cold almost instantaneously and he begins to wonder if it had always been cold and the heat was the fire in his blood that Thorin had ignited. He shares one last kiss with the Dwarf King and exits the shower knowing he could never afford one. The hole in the roof needed fixing first, and then the door and then the field gate and a new stable before they could spend frivolously. 

They are trivial things-domestic- things a King needn’t worry himself with. He dries himself off with a towel, paying attention to his honey curls and the hair on his feet before returning to the bedroom. His clothes aren’t too scattered and he pulls them on and frowns when he finds his cravat on the bed stained with his own release. He leaves it and pulls the cover over it as if he had simply forgotten it as Thorin walks in, as naked as a new born. It’s jarring for a moment to see someone completely comfortable in their own skin. Bofur hides himself away and even he covers himself and sleeps in a nightshirt. 

“I’ll walk you home.” Thorin offers magnanimously but he pales in response. 

“Ah, best not. To the gate would be fine, thank you.” He says, remembering his manners as no one out-right refuses the King. 

“Very well.” The King was agreeable and he released the breath he had been holding and continues to dress. Once he is finished, he sits on the bed and awaits the King to dress so he may unlock the door. The key remained in the lock but he did not desire to be so bold and release himself. It is the turning of the lock that catches his attention and he looks up from his lap to see the King by the open door extending his hand to him. He climbs off the bed and takes the King’s hand and allows him to escort him through his kingdom. 

On their journey here he had been consumed with rage that he hadn’t bothered to look but now that he was leaving, he can appreciate the vaulted ceilings and the veins of gold running like rivers through rock. The architecture was simply magnificent and he notices his speechless awe makes the King stand a little taller, proud, vain. The mountain was a reflection of the King himself, they were one and the same and so his admiration for the mountain was admiration for Thorin. 

Dwarves pass them, bowing in respect for their King and pointedly ignore the fact that they were holding hands. He doesn’t flatter himself, this was probably a common occurrence. A walk of shame that the King delights in. How many have stood in his place? How many First Night’s had the King claimed for himself? He was just another notch on his bedpost and he was okay with that. 

They reach the main gate and there are a swarm of people coming to and from the mountain. He means to take his leave but Thorin grabs his arm and pulls him back and steals a kiss that he cannot prevent. It is deep and devouring and his mouth is slack beneath the onslaught. He considers pushing the King away before he decides that would be a very foolish thing to do and so he throws his arms around the King’s neck in false intimacy and lets him kiss him without return. 

When they part, whatever emotion crosses the King’s face was gone before he could identify it but the burning desire remained in his eyes. He licked his lower lip revelling in the taste of the King for one last time and then the King turned so quickly his hair struck him in the face and then he was gone, lost among the sea of people. 

He wiped at his mouth confused and looked around to see if anyone was watching. Finding that no one was, he decided not to dwell on the kiss, yes it was different to the others they had shared but he reasons it was the last goodbye. 

He leaves the mountain without a backward glance and heads to the fork in the road and turns off towards his village. The streets are unsurprisingly quiet as the village folk are either at work or asleep to work the night shift as Erebor does not sleep. The sun was unnecessary to work in the mines, so by default time became unnecessary and the tunnels were mined twenty-four hours a day. 

He gazes upon the remnants of his wedding and an unidentifiable emotion weighs heavily on his heart. Twenty-three of the chairs remain and four tables he had borrowed as his empty plates are piled upon them. There isn’t a scrap of food to be seen and the ground is strewn with empty wine bottles without a single drop left. He kicks the nearest bottle remembering the trouble it had caused. 

There was no way to explain the chance meeting to Bofur as he had taken credit for inviting the King, and had even suggested his actions were a wedding gift. He could come clean but the less said about the King the better. 

He walks over to the table and collects his mother’s punchbowl and walks home. The gate drops off its hinge as he opens it and he sighs in frustration and kicks it shut without fixing it. Myrtle lifts her head at the commotion and soon lowers it, disinterested. He ignores the warped front door and enters through the pantry finding the door unlocked.

Bofur was home, but of course Bofur was home. They had both managed to get a day off from work for their honeymoon and it was only one day as they couldn’t afford to miss another day off work. He walks through the pantry into the kitchen and places the punchbowl beside the sink.

He walks up the step to go into the Livingroom and finds Bofur there, gazing out of the window chilled by the breeze coming through the warped door. He sneaks up behind him and wraps his arms around his waist and he is instantly shoved away as Bofur evades his arms. 

“Hi,” it’s a piss-poor welcome that he could admit to but he could find no other greeting that would suffice. Bofur doesn’t answer him and his heart aches as he sees his husband’s eyes ringed red from spilled tears. “I love you.” He reassures him and goes in for a kiss only for Bofur to turn away from him once more. “You hate me?” 

Bofur shakes his head. “I don’t hate you…I just…need time.” He nods sadly. He had given him five years, he could wait a little longer. Bofur turns his back to him and the action hurts more than words could say and he feels a lump swell in his own throat as tears prick his eyes. 

He wants to tell him that he is sorry and that he will give him the space he desires but he does not trust his voice and instead leaves. He harnesses the wagon to Myrtle and leads her from their field, out through the broken gate to the tables where his pots are stacked. He starts to carefully load his cart, one plate after another to kill time and while he is out some villagers appear to collect a chair and wish him well. He smiles in thanks and waves goodbye, all the while wondering if they knew. 

He collects the wine bottles and returns them to the crates they came in and finds five unaccounted for. He’d ask around for them so he could trade them in, they’d understand, money is short and every little helped. 

After everything is collected, he returns home and releases and feeds Myrtle and sits on his stone bench in his garden that will not grow with his back to the mountain, smoking the last of his Old Toby. 

As dusk settles in the remaining chairs are taken away along with the last four tables and it is as if nothing has happened. He sighs and returns home and spends his night washing and drying dishes. He doesn’t bother to eat as he was not sure he could stomach a single bite, and Bofur does not come to help him. 

By night’s end his fingers are pruned and his legs ache from standing for so long. He retires to his bedroom where a fire is lit and Bofur is on the bed hidden beneath a blanket on the very edge. He drags a weary hand down his face and stifles another sigh as he enters their tiny bathroom and cleans his teeth and changes into his nightshirt, throwing his wedding clothes into the hamper by the sink. 

He climbs into bed feeling the draft from the roof and curls up beneath his blanket, his back to his husband, as he clutches the edge of the mattress missing the warmth a body could provide. He presses his face into his flat pillow and cries silently. 

“Bilbo?” Bofur asks quietly in the dark and he can only make a noise of acknowledgement. “I don’t blame you for what happened.” He doesn’t say anything else but it was enough to mend the pieces of his broken heart.


	5. One-Month Anniversary

The iced-buns were going stale sat out in the dying light of the day. He paid them little mind as he continued to pace in his dead garden, smoking cheap tobacco while pointedly trying to ignore his problems. 

It should have been his one-month anniversary today. Their anniversary, but he fools himself if he believes their relationship-marriage- to be anything other than one sided. He’d blamed himself at first, he had invited the King, but he did not know him or what he was capable of. It was a mistake, one he readily admitted to, and Bofur says he did not blame him, but he did. 

His heart was mended by hearing those words and now he knows them for the sweet poison that they were. He’d betrayed Bofur but not willingly and he was tired of the accusation he can see in his eyes. He’s tired of saying sorry for actions no one could prevent. Most of all, he is tired of his love not being reciprocated. 

Bofur had been saving himself for marriage, a consummation that never happened due to the King’s interference. It was unexpected heartache for the pair of them. He understood that Bofur may need a little time and that he was more than willing to give, but frankly his patience wore thin and he had become suspicious. 

Had the King tainted him in Bofur’s eyes or had the King just given Bofur the excuse he needed to not explore their love physically? He fears the latter. His mother once told him he should marry his best friend and he had done just that but unfortunately it would seem that is all Bofur is, or desires to be. 

He knocks his ash from his pipe where the grass won’t grow- not even a dandelion- and shoves it into his pocket. He’s been prolonging the inevitable and with a sigh he collects the iced-buns from the bench and enters his home through the pantry door. 

Bofur works the nightshift now in the mountain while he works the morning shift at the bakery in Dale. Bofur is asleep in bed when he awakens and he’s asleep in bed when Bofur returns, but there is a two-hour window when they can be together. It is that two hours that he was trying to while away.

Their relationship is not as it should be, it has become strained and cold. He can’t remember the last time that he had laughed or heard Bofur sing. He can’t remember the last time he was happy. It hurts to enter the home they bought together, to see the dwarf he had married only to act like strangers to one another. 

He shuts the door and swallows the lump in his throat as he spies Bofur sat at the kitchen table with nothing before him. He had hoped he would be in the bedroom getting ready for the nightshift. He had wanted to eat his iced-bun and leave one for Bofur to take for his break while hopefully not seeing him. A silly thought really, their house is tiny, they were always going to see each other. 

Bofur sits up straighter when he sees him. His hat is off, resting on the table and his long hair remains in two messy plaits over each shoulder. His brown eyes are wide and pleading and…hopeful? His own stomach knots in anxiety by that expression and hope rises within him. 

“I think we need to talk.” He nods, they do, and he takes a seat at the opposite end of the table. “Things haven’t been right between us since…” he doesn’t say and only gives him a meaningful look. “But that’s in the past now, and well…I’m ready.” His own eyes widen in surprise, Bofur won’t even hold his hand and now this. 

“Are you sure?” He wants Bofur to be comfortable and he also doesn’t believe him. 

“Happy Anniversary,” he chirps merrily but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes and the cheer sounded forced. Perhaps he has become jaded. “You asked me to marry you and I said yes…”

“After a fashion.” He meant it in jest but it sounded blasé. 

“I said yes because I love you, I truly do.”

He releases the breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. “I love you too.” Bofur smiles then and it is as if all his sins are forgiven. Bofur stands and holds out his hand. 

“Show me.” He scrambles out of his seat in his desperation to hold Bofur’s hand. 

“What about work?” As much as he wishes to consummate their marriage, and he does, with all his heart, they can’t afford to miss a day from work. 

“It’s okay, I changed shifts again.” Night time pays better, but if it means he can spend his nights in his husband’s arms it is a sacrifice he is willing to make. 

Bofur leads him into the bedroom, his palm is sweaty against his own sweaty palm. His body practically vibrates as he is filled with nervous excitement. The bedroom is dark as the hanging candelabra has not been lit but there is a roaring fire and two candles placed either side of the bed. The bedsheets have been changed to their least threadbare that they own and he does not fail to notice the jar of oil beside the bed. 

It was actually happening. 

Bofur drops his hand and turns to him with a tentative smile and so he steps forward and presses their lips together to no response. Bofur’s lips remain still beneath his own. He steps back to look quizzically into eyes that had him spellbound for five years and tries to kiss him once more with the same result. It was hard to kiss an unresponsive mouth and so he turns his attention to his neck and visibly sees Bofur’s shoulder stiffen. 

He steps back, worried that he was doing something wrong. Had he misjudged the situation? The evidence suggests that he has not. During his musing, Bofur removes his sheepskin coat and keeps his eyes to the floor as he kicks off his boots. He follows his actions and shrugs off his burgundy coat and unbuttons his waistcoat trying to forget the feel of deft fingers plucking carefully at them, eager to bare him to lustful smouldering eyes. 

It’s just nerves, he tells himself, placatingly. The first time is always awkward and he mustn’t judge Bofur on his inexperience, or compare him. Bofur removes his beige shirt revealing a hairy chest and plump stomach. His skin is a shade darker than the King’s and he mentally reprimands himself for the comparison, but he continues noticing that though Bofur had tattoos decorating his body he had far less than the King. 

He drops his own waistcoat to the floor and pulls his shirt over his head without unbuttoning it, no longer self-conscious due to Bofur’s round belly. He looks up expecting Bofur to be eyeing his body and is disappointed as his eyes remain on the floor as he unbuttons his trousers. 

He bites back a sigh and removes his own trousers and underwear. Despite the awkwardness his cock is hard and he frowns when he sees that Bofur’s is not. His own wilts a little as his self-esteem takes a hit. There’s no heat between them. No passion. No desire. 

“We don’t have to,” he offers convinced he had bullied Bofur into it somehow. He doesn’t want to and he doesn’t want to lay with someone who doesn’t want to lay with him. 

“It’s fine,” Bofur tries to reassure him as he takes himself in hand. A positive action but no less awkward. He sits on the bed unsure if he should watch as Bofur’s cock swells between his thighs. He takes his own cock in hand and strokes twice and that was all he needed to reignite his desperation. He wants this but he worries at what cost. 

Bofur sits beside him on the bed, a good metre apart and he stares down into his lap where he wrings his hands nervously. 

“I don’t…” Bofur begins and falters. He lifts his head thinking Bofur means to abort this abysmal attempt at intimacy but instead he finds the dwarf waving his hand between them. “You…or me?” It takes him a moment to understand what Bofur was trying to articulate. 

“Oh, me.” In fairness they hadn’t discussed the dynamic in the bedroom and though he was hoping it would be equal, he was happy to lay down for him on their first night. 

“Shall I?” Bofur asks, pointing to the oil and he nods while crawling onto the bed and laying down on his back in the centre. He parts his thighs as Bofur joins him with the oil and in this enthusiasm or nervousness he pours too much into his palm and some spills on his thigh where it drips onto the sheets to no doubt stain. It doesn’t matter, Bofur is willing to touch him, to make love to him, nothing matters more than that. 

The first breach of his finger has him grunting in discomfort from the harsh jab. He should have talked him through it and so he reaches down to guide his hand. Even with his guidance the touch is only perfunctory, a means to an end. It’s something they can work on. By the third finger he’s pushing Bofur’s hand away and collecting the jar from his slack grip. He pours oil into his own hand and then places it around Bofur’s hard cock and strokes. 

His husband looks beautiful writhing in pleasure from his touch, hazel eyes squeezed shut, head thrown back and full lips parted to emit each staggered breath. He almost wants to see him come undone in his hand but there would be plenty of time for that later. He removes his hand and steals a quick kiss before laying back down. 

“Turn around.” Bofur says and his heart sinks. 

“What?”

“It’ll be easier.” It’s true, it would be, and so with reluctance he turns over and gets onto his hands and knees realising with distaste that it was such a derogatory position. He had wanted to see his husband’s face, he had wanted to learn his every expression of pleasure and commit them to memory. Still, they had the rest of their lives to do that. 

Bofur takes hold of his hips and for the first time he is thankful that the bruises are gone, as they would have soured the mood. He hadn’t minded them being made, in fact he had grown to love them as his relationship with Bofur seemingly deteriorated he was able to press on them and feel a ghost of a touch from a time when he was wanted. He hoped Bofur would replace those bruises. 

Bofur pushes into him slowly with a litany of breathy curses spilling from his lips. He wants to see him more than ever but instead he spreads his hands further apart to brace himself. He’s given no time to adjust to the length within him as Bofur pulls out and slides back in. It’s his own fault, he should have explained things better, guided him better, or even rode him. 

He drops his head and groans into the pillow. The power he had felt by riding the King was a heady experience and he could only imagine how much better it would be with someone he actually cared about. Bofur should be beneath him, sick with hunger, dark eyes feral as he writhes in ecstasy beneath him. 

There’s time for that, they had all night and the rest of their lives to explore their carnal desires. For now, he was happy with the even thrusts and the sounds of Bofur’s pleasure. His movements were mechanical and he tried to ignore it even as his own pleasure suffered as a consequence. Bofur was dutiful rather than lustful, he fucked him as if it were a mission rather than the consummation of their love. Sex shouldn’t have to be a chore. 

“Touch me,” he whispers as his erection wanes. Perhaps he spoke too softly as Bofur’s hands remain on his hips, cupping not caressing, as if it was just somewhere to put his hands. The angle of his thrust is not enough to bring him to completion and as he wets his lips to make the request again, Bofur stills and spills inside him. 

He hadn’t even realised he was close as his thrusts remained the same, measured and unhurried. He awaits to see what Bofur will do next and to his dismay he pulls out and heads into the bathroom leaving him on all fours unsatisfied. He stares at the bathroom door in disbelief and sighs in frustration as he takes his own cock in hand and thinks of eyes that were not hazel and cums with a name on his lips that was not his husbands. 

The sheets are a mess after he finishes so he wipes himself down with them and changes the bed sheets, tossing the used sheets by the bathroom door where the hamper is kept. He pulls on his nightshirt and walks into the kitchen and pours himself a glass of water and eats the stale iced-bun and then the other just to be petty. 

When he returns to the bedroom Bofur has already taken the dirty linen away and is laid on the edge of the bed. His arms are tightly clenched around his chest and his cheeks are unmistakably tear-stained. He climbs onto the bed and attempts to take his husband in his arms but his embrace is denied and the kiss he tries to bestow is met with a grimace. 

He gives up then, defeated and stays on his side of the bed trying to understand what had gone wrong. He knew there would be a price to pay, he just never realised the cost would be his soul. He lies on the bed, desolate, with no tears left to cry.


	6. Apples

Bofur was singing again. Their house felt like a home again and their relationship is as it was before. They had managed to patch the hole in the roof and find a bolt for the gate. Bofur had made a deal with the Dale carpenter, his services in exchange for a new door. Bofur was a skilled toy-maker and his talents were simply wasted in the mines and he relished the opportunity to partake in his chosen craft once more. 

He had taken on more hours at the bakery while Bofur alternated shifts in the mines but it seemed the more hours they worked the less money they had. Bofur was singing again though and that was enough for him-should be- had to be. He loved Bofur. He did. Truly…and yet his smile had not returned. 

After they had consummated their marriage their relationship reverted back to what it once was, for Bofur at least. He had his best friend back but there was no relationship beyond that, no husband to share his bed with. No intimacy. 

He had thought that Bofur was saving himself for marriage. He did not know that Bofur viewed sex as an obstacle rather than the culmination of their love and that intimacy was a prelude to the act that he found so abhorrent. He would have never pressed the issue had he known. 

There was more to a relationship than sex, but even something as chaste as a hand hold was rejected. He knew that Bofur would never look at him with desire in his eyes and he had made his peace with that but to not share a kiss? To not be able to hold the one he loved? Why agree to marry him? 

“Your sour face is turning off my customers.” Dag says partially in jest as he eyes him in concern. 

“Sorry, I was just thinking.” He returns, lamely. 

“Best not to, if it brings you down. You’d best be off now if you want good seats for the exhibition.” As if on cue he hears familiar whistling and then he sees Bofur’s furred hat as his love comes to collect him. 

“’Ello Dag, you ready, Bilbo?” Bofur says standing on the threshold of the bakery. It is rare that they get to do anything together and with free admission, the exhibition was an opportunity that could not be missed. 

“Get going.” Dag ushers him out and he reaches for Bofur’s hand and lets it fall to his side as he grasps thin air. They rush through the city streets towards the arena and find the doors are already opened allowing people inside. Not wishing to part from Bofur he clutches the dwarf’s sleeve as they are swept up in the sea of people. 

They are too late for first tier seats but manage to seat themselves on the second row of the second tier in the centre with a good view of the sand. He wasn’t entirely sure what they would be exhibiting but it was free and the arena was slowly filling up. 

Once at capacity the doors are closed and he hears the sigh of disappointment as folks are turned away. That is soon drowned out by the sound of a horn and the beating of several drums. The crowd to the left of the arena come alive cheering and hollering and he stands up trying to get a good view and his heart plummets as he sees King Thorin stepping out onto the sand accompanied by a large dwarf, taller than the King himself. 

He applauds as the others do and he keeps his eyes forward feeling Bofur’s gaze on his skin. The crowd take their seats and he sits once more wringing his hands nervously while an anxious tremor runs down his right leg. 

The King and his companion stand in the centre of the arena and bow to one another in honour before combat. There are no weapons between them and after the bow, the taller dwarf steps forward and raises his arms in the air and turns addressing the entire crowd. 

He assumes he is known as the crowd chant ‘Dwalin’ and dozens of silks are raised in fisted hands in his favour. The King looks around vaguely impressed and mockingly applauds his opponent before he raises his own arms and is met with a thunderous applause while hundreds of silks are waved in his favour. 

Dwalin looks displeased and removes his heavy leather overcoat and tosses it onto the sand. He steps forward once more and raises his arms flexing his bulging biceps as he stands in a leather vest stretched over his wide chest and heavy belly. The applause is deafening and far louder than the one the King received and the accompanying screams were much more feminine as more silks were raised. 

The King looks vexed as Dwalin smirks at him but then he smiles deviously and removes his surcoat. The crowd come alive once more but the King continues to strip, casting aside his chainmail and red shirt and faces the crowd bare-chested. The crowd applaud and scream and stomp their feet, some chanting his name, while two thirds of the arena are waving their silks frantically. 

He vaguely wonders what their intentions are. Were they his conquests or did they simply just wish to be? How many notches were on his bedpost? Judging from the crowd reaction, male and female, young and old, man and dwarf, all believed they were in with a chance. It would seem to sleep with the King his only specification was a warm body. 

He pauses, realising his thoughts were jealous in nature when they had no reason to be. He keeps his eyes forward afraid to see Bofur’s reaction. He can’t see much of Dwalin but his arms bare less tattoos than Thorin’s so he assumes his torso does as well. The horn sounds again and the two lock-up in hand to hand combat. He doubts it will be a real fight, the King can’t lose and a dwarf the size of Dwalin would simply put him on his ass. 

The crowd don’t mind the ruse as they continue to cheer mostly for Thorin but there is a steadfast ‘Dwalin’ chant he can hear when the Thorin cheerers catch their breath. He neither claps nor cheers and simply watches as the two dwarves push against each other, neither giving up ground to the other. Thorin breaks the hold to duck beneath Dwalin’s swinging left fist to get behind the taller dwarf. His arms snake around Dwalin’s waist and once his hands are locked, he leans back, throwing Dwalin over his shoulder into the sand. Thorin gets up immediately and kicks sand on his fallen opponent before giving up ground so Dwalin could stand once more. 

Thorin tackles him taking him down into the sand again and as he sits astride him victorious, Dwalin throws sand in his eyes to a chorus of boos and rolls over, pinning the King beneath him. He coughs nervously and shifts on the bench before leaning forward suddenly invested in the match. Thorin is able to push the heavier dwarf off of him and he wonders how much of that was his own strength against Dwalin’s acquiescence. They continue to roll in the sand, neither trading any blows and an uneasy silence engulfs the arena. 

Dwalin attempts to make the King submit as he has him beneath him once more and tries to pin his arms above his head. He shifts again on the bench, watching the King struggle beneath Dwalin, muscles taut and teeth snapping aggressively as he realises he is trapped. The crowd boo as Thorin raises his leg and knees Dwalin in the crotch in a desperation manoeuvre.

Dwalin falls to the side and curls in on himself clutching his testicles as Thorin gets up and arrogantly bows to the booing crowd. When Dwalin stands again, Thorin runs at him but is caught as Dwalin’s arms go around him, immobilising his arms and as they stand belly to belly, he leans back throwing the King over his shoulder. Dwalin gets up and pulls the King to his feet by his left arm and places his left leg in front of Thorin’s left leg while holding his left arm back stretching his abdominals. 

The King yells in discomfort and Dwalin applies pressure to his right thigh, his hand is a little too high, needlessly so. Clearly a move they’ve done behind closed doors. He loosens his cravat finding the arena stuffy and hot. A thin sheen of sweat covers the King’s chest and he unconsciously licks his lips and hears Bofur grunt in disgust. 

He turns to him then finding Bofur uninterested in the match and glaring at him. “I can’t believe you.” He says sadly, shaking his head and gets up. 

“Bofur no,” he calls after him. They are seven people deep along the bench so Bofur is causing a scene by leaving as the dwarves have to stand to let him by. “Bofur wait!” He calls after him, and relinquishes his seat so the dwarves do not have to stand a second time. 

Bofur is already near the exit as he chases after him but by the time he reaches the door Bofur is nowhere to be seen. 

“They’ve just left, can’t we have their seats?” A woman asks security and he feels bad haven taken seats someone else could have enjoyed. He looks around once more and assumes Bofur returned home. With a sigh, he shoved his hands into his pockets and returned to the bakery for the second half of his shift. 

Dag is a thirty-seven-year-old man with short blond hair and eyes as green as grass. His skin is fair, unblemished by the sun as he spends his days and night baking. He lifts his head as the bell above the door rings as he enters and his charming smile wanes as he sees that it is only him. 

“Has time stood still? I am sure you only just left.” He’s exaggerating, Dag does that, but he gets the point across. 

He doesn’t wish to lie but he has no intention on telling the truth so he settles for both. “Bofur didn’t enjoy it.” 

“So he cut your time short?” Dag asks annoyed and he shrugs. 

“I didn’t want to stay there on my own.”

“You spend little enough time together as it is. Is everything okay between you two?” He turns while putting his apron on so Dag does not see the tears that well in his eyes. 

“It’s fine,” he says, voice breaking. 

“It’s not.” Dag says placing a hand on his shoulder and turns him around. “Hey now, why these tears? You’ve not been married a year yet; you’re not allowed to cry.” Dag jests and he laughs despite the tears. 

“It’s not how I imagined married life to be.” He confesses and wipes the tears from his eyes. 

“It never is. It is a marriage of two people with two different minds. You won’t always agree with each other; you won’t always get along but you will always love each other so you learn to take the bad with the good.” He opens his mouth and then closes it as he has no words. For the sake of propriety, he cannot speak the truth. “You’re going through a rough patch now, but that just means good is around the corner. When my wife is mad at me, I bake her something.” 

“I take your cakes home to him every night.” 

“Exactly, mine, you must bake for him. What is his favourite treat?” 

“Err…” he says, thinking aloud. “I suppose apple pie? I had one in the oven when we first met. I couldn’t say if it is his favourite but it is the dish that has the most meaning.” 

“There we are then, bake him an apple pie. Regale him with your tales of romance, remind him why he fell in love with you.” 

“I didn’t realise you were such a romantic.” Dag shrugs with a warm smile. “An excellent idea but I just simply don’t have the time.” 

“Where there is a will there is a way. Now I don’t know Will but I have a way. Take the afternoon off, with that exhibition I can’t imagine business will pick up and Bofur works the night shift. Go home to him, bake for him, spend time together.” 

He nods, enthused. “Thank you, Dag.” He says and pulls the man into a hug and then leaves the bakery. He has the majority of the supplies at home but no apples and so he visits the grocer and purchases five. As he reaches into his pocket to pay, he notices that he still has his apron on and with five apples in his hand, he had also forgotten his bag. 

He makes his way back towards the bakery thankful that the streets were less busy as he holds the apples precariously. He’s looking down, watching his feet as someone knocks into his right shoulder and carries on without an apology. He grumbles to himself and looks down finding four apples instead of five. 

He turns then, to eye his assailant and watches the back of a dwarf with long raven hair. Feeling his eyes upon him, the dwarf turns his head and the King gifts him a smirk and a wink before bringing an apple-his apple- towards his lips and biting it. He wets his own lips looking at the King’s wet with apple juice and is suddenly overcome with a great idea. 

He returns to the bakery, ignoring Dag’s questioning look as he is smiling, and he hangs his apron and collects his bag, stuffing the apples inside before saying goodbye once more and rushing home. 

Bofur does not like intimacy because he deems it a prelude to penetration but it doesn’t have to be that way. There is another way, many others, but the way the King taught him will surely change his mind. 

He would think it was with luck that Bofur was home but it was not luck, they couldn’t afford to drown their sorrows in the tavern and dwarves were a private bunch and did not make good shoulders to cry on. He enters their home and sets the apples on the table and finds Bofur sat in his armchair by the fire. He gets down on his knees before him and as Bofur quirks an inquisitive eyebrow he unbuttons his trousers and leans forward only to be pushed away. 

“What are you doing?” Bofur asks scandalised, curling on the seat to protect himself. 

“I was…” he can’t finish. 

“You were going to use your mouth?” He nods. “That’s disgusting.” He sits back on his hunches, slack-jawed and hurt. He had thought it was disgusting too but it wasn’t. 

“If you try it…”

“No Bilbo,” Bofur interrupts him. “Have some self-respect. I’m going to see Nori.” Bofur then climbs out of the chair, over the armrest and he lowers his head and only knows Bofur has left by the slamming of the door.


	7. Cinnamon

It’s a cold Hevendays afternoon when it begins. He was stood in the front window of the bakery refilling the baskets with muffins and cream scones to tempt the customers inside. The price card had fallen from the window and he reapplied it and as he looked through the window, he saw the King pass by. He had ducked, much to Dag’s confusion and when he deemed enough time had lapsed, he looked through the window once more finding the King had gone. 

He thought no more of it, until the very next day the same thing happened and the day after that. “Does King Thorin often walk through Dale without guards?” He’d asked Dag. Before the wine incident he had never seen the King in Dale but that was not to say he had not been there, only that he had not been aware of him. 

Dag gave a shrug in answer to his question and he did not know what to make of it. After the wine incident, he’d only seen Thorin in streets after the exhibition and now it seemed a day could not go by without seeing him. 

In the end he put it all down to boredom. The King wasn’t doing anything untoward and King spotting passed the time. He was probably looking for escapism as his relationship-he snorts derisively- with Bofur was too fragile. He had even taken to sleeping in his armchair by the fire rather than to share a bed with his supposed husband. 

The timer chimes awakening him from his reverie and he takes the tray of sausage rolls from the oven and places another tray in, resetting the timer. He carefully places the sausage rolls onto the display tray and places the baking tray in the sink when he becomes aware of voices in the shop front. 

One of the voices is Dag’s but his words are stuttered nonsense. He collects the display tray and walks through into the main shop. 

“…Something small and delicious…ah, there he is.” He almost drops the tray as King Thorin stands in the bakery by the cake display. He casts a nervous look towards Dag finding the man wringing his hands nervously in his apron, making sounds with his mouth but no words. 

“May I help you?” He offers politely and places the tray into the rightful slot in the display case. Unlike other bakeries the counters were built low for a smaller clientele, as Dag had seen the robust bellies on the dwarves and catered to their needs as they had bigger pockets. 

“Yes, you may.” Had his voice always been that deep? His eyes that blue? He was stunning and worst of all, he knew it. “I was looking for something sweet to put into my mouth.” He did not have to describe it that way. He swallows thickly and leans against the counter as his knees feel weak. 

“Err…a cinnamon swirl?” He suggests hoping a blush was not staining his cheeks. Thorin nods once in agreement and so he collects the tongs and gathers a cinnamon swirl and places it into a paper bag. He passes the bag over with his left hand and Thorin scoffs when he sees his iron wedding band as he takes the bag.

The ringing of the bell sounds the King’s exit and he turns to look at Dag. “He didn’t pay for that.” 

“He’s the King of Erebor,” Dag reminds him, finally finding his voice. “Are you going to tell him to pay?”

He shakes his head. “No.” 

“The King of Erebor,” Dag sighs happily. “In my bakery. Of all the bakeries and he chooses mine. What did he purchase? A cinnamon swirl?” Dag asks and answers his own question. “We must rename it, Durin’s swirl, the King’s Choice, Majestic cinnamon swirl, Kingly? Royal?” Dag goes on but the roaring of blood in his ears drowns out further suggestions. Of all the bakeries, why this one? He did not come in for a cake or pastry, he barely glanced at the selection and despite not returning the stare, the King did not take his eyes off him. It was unnerving, predatory…sexy. 

“Can I go on my break now?” He asks, taking off his apron before an answer has been given. Dag nods, as he is still running through new names, brain-storming with himself and he takes his leave with the chime of the bell. 

It’s a half-baked idea and he does not know what possesses him. A lie. He does know what motivates him, what he does not know is what he wishes to accomplish by following the King. 

The thing with half-baked ideas is that they rarely come to fruition and though little time elapsed between them both leaving the bakery, he does not see the King again. He shrugs, thinking it was for the best and returns early to the bakery and a good thing too as people are lined outside the door. 

He enters through the back and puts the spare apron on and joins Dag in the main shop. The man is stressed, his brow glistens with sweat but there is a smile on his face and he manages though he does give him a thankful smile as the crowd split into two. 

“What did the King order?” An elderly lady with grey hair asks Dag.

“The Durin Swirl,” Dag answers and he laughs and hears no more as a man with cornflower eyes and blond hair approaches his counter.

“Two Durin Swirls please.” It takes his best effort to school his features and he nods politely and collects two noticing the drizzle of icing is now the Durin coat of arms. He takes the payment and then passes over the bag and takes the next order. The line is full of the King’s sycophants, all wanting to buy what he had, if he had paid for it which he didn’t. He doesn’t mind so much now, as the bakery has never been so busy and the King has more than paid back for what he stole. 

The orders become bigger by those that have waited longer and the cakes that threatened to become stale are sold as is the bread and scones and all the sausage rolls. The oven is full of cinnamon-Durin- swirls and eventually they sell out of everything else, much to Dag’s relief. He hadn’t said, but lately the bakery had been suffering, as Dag had made more than what he was selling making a loss on ingredients. Today should help balance the books and he was in no fear of having his hours cut. 

Despite how good the day had been, it is a relief to turn the open sign to closed and lock the front door. Almost immediately someone is knocking on it and he turns to see a ginger haired dwarf stood at the door, pointing to the counter where the last three Durin swirls sit. He turns back and the dwarf holds up three fingers and points to himself. He turns towards Dag. 

“Let him in,” Dag says with a smile and he opens the door allowing the dwarf inside. He bags the three last swirls and takes payment and sees the dwarf out and locks the door behind him. “Here you are, Bilbo.” Dag says appearing behind him and presses one of the paper bags into his hand. It rings with the sound of coins and he looks at him in confusion. “The King didn’t come here for a cinnamon swirl,” Dag tells him plainly. He opens his mouth to protest but Dag raises a silencing hand. “I do not presume to know why he came but I am grateful that he did. He was here to tease you, for whatever reason and I have profited from it, as you should too.” He put the bag into his pocket while Dag scrutinises him. “Do you need to talk?” He says he does not know why Thorin has come but he has guessed. How could he not, when Thorin chose to look at him in that way and say what he had? How can he tell Dag that he had slept with him twice and did something of an intimate nature twice more on his wedding day no less? He’d think he was a monster and he could not endure more looks of disapproval as he got plenty from Bofur. 

“It’s nothing, I’ll see you tomorrow.” Dag stays to bake for the morrow while he takes his leave. He walks slowly through the town but the streets are almost barren and the King is nowhere to be seen. He pats his pocket and hears the chime of coins and decides it will go towards a new stable for Myrtle.

Bofur is gone by the time he returns as they had both taken on more hours eliminating the two-hour window they once shared when Bofur worked nights. Normally he would eat the cakes Dag gave him for his dinner, as he and Bofur no longer dined together when they could. They were strangers now living under the same roof, he could claim they were barely even friends. 

That had hurt the most, not losing a husband because he never really had a husband but losing his best friend. Missing his stories and his cheeky grin and those bawdy ditties he used to sing. Most of all he missed who he used to be, he missed the laughter and the way he used to feel when Bofur gave him those secret smiles, the ones reserved solely for him. 

He hated that Bofur was hurting and it was he who had brought him such pain. He only wanted to physicalize their love, was that so wrong? He was hurting too. He wanted to fix it, fix them but he was longer convinced that love was enough. He’d once thought that love solved everything and now he realises how truly naïve he has been. 

He makes soup for dinner and has a wash and goes to bed early. He’s been sleeping more lately, he’d heard folks say it was because of depression, he’d hate to admit it but he certainly felt depressed. He needed to speak to Bofur, he had to explain to the dwarf how he made him feel when his touches were denied. They were married, why must he be treated like a monster for simply acting like they were?

He sleeps in the bed as his back is beginning to hurt from sleeping in the armchair and he falls to sleep to the memory of being engulfed in strong arms. 

 

He awakens, sticky from his own release with a name on his lips that he dare not speak. Bofur is beside him, back to him none-the-wiser and so he carefully climbs out of the bed and walks into the bathroom. He takes his nightshirt off and washes the stain from the front of it in the sink before throwing it into the hamper and cleaning his own body. 

Still muddled from sleep his mind wanders and returns to the dream that was still fresh in his memory. He had been stood in the bakery in front of the counter instead of behind it, Dag was absent and the bell rang to sound a new customer. Something had his attention so he did not turn to see who it was until he heard the click of the lock. He had cast a panicked look over his shoulder to see the King turning the open sign to closed and levelled him with a stare that revealed an insatiable hunger. Thorin struck then, pinning him against the display case, capturing his lips in a devouring kiss that demanded compliance. He didn’t fight him. He didn’t want to fight him. Instead he moved his hands under Thorin’s crimson shirt and raked his nails down his chest, over his hard abdominals and lower to reach for the button of his trousers. 

The King gave him room so he was able to lower to his knees and he was not repulsed. Instead he gazed at him with that yearning hunger that he remembered. His want so tangible he could taste it, and he hungered for him too, for his acceptance, for his desire, for his body. He wanted, he could have and so he took.

He works his hand steadily along the growing desire between his thighs. He doesn’t know the taste of the King but his mind supplied cinnamon as the King guided his mouth along his length, teaching him without judgement. There was nothing but desire burning in his eyes, a selfish lustful infectious want that passed between them as he made a whore of himself, sucking hungrily on the King’s cock. 

He stifles a cry against the back of his hand as he reaches completion over the toilet bowl and flushes the evidence away. He hasn’t done anything terribly wrong but the guilt eats away at him and he finishes washing and dresses in his work clothes. 

When he leaves the bathroom Bofur is still in the same position in the bed asleep. He won’t wake him, it’s too early but they do need to talk. He doesn’t bother with breakfast since he hungers for something cinnamon and there’s none in the house. He grabs some carrots from the pantry and exits through the pantry door and locks it behind him. Myrtle approaches interested and he feeds the carrots to her before leaving out the gate and down the mountain into the city. 

The torches are lit guiding his way as it is still dark out but the streets are filled with market sellers setting up their stalls for the day’s trade. It isn’t opening hours yet and so he enters the bakery through the back and finds Dag taking a tray of cinnamon swirls from the oven and putting another tray in. The tables are full of cinnamon swirls as if that is all he had made. 

“Good morning, Dag.” He greets and collects his apron from the shop front. The cake display is stacked and the window display is full of bread and scones and one box boasting of Durin swirls. Three of the five display cases hold nothing but Durin swirls, a pre-emptive move that could be costly. 

“Good morning, Bilbo, will your friend be joining us today?” Dag asks coming into the main shop with another tray of Durin swirls, making them two deep on the display tray. The question throws him and he stares at the baker questioningly. “The King,” Dag clarifies. 

“He’s not my friend.” 

“Then what is he to you?” Dag let it go yesterday but now it seems he has stewed on it and he can be like a dog with a bone. 

“I honestly don’t know.” He answers with a shrug, eyes down. 

“The King has a reputation, do not let him lead you astray.”

“I do not think he has time to lead me astray, he has a Kingdom to rule after all.” 

“Ha! He rules Erebor in name alone, his sister runs his kingdom in return for him naming her first born his heir, but he has last say on all things.” A King with all of the perks and none of the responsibility, with an heir as well, so he needn’t marry and can carry on sowing his wild oats. His behaviour made sense now. “He does not love.”

“Did I claim the King loved me?” He snaps angrily. 

“You swoon for him.”

“As many do!” He slaps a hand over his mouth but it is too late, Dag had heard his confession. 

“He is handsome but he is not Bofur.” Dag reminds him. 

“I know.” Of course Thorin wasn’t Bofur, Thorin actually wanted him. 

There’s a queue forming outside the door and he turns the closed sign to open and unlocks the door. The King had turned Dag’s fortune around, strange that he would speak so negatively about his benefactor. 

He steps behind the counter and takes the first order of the day hoping that Thorin does not enter while secretly longing that he will.


	8. Enough

The King does not return to the bakery but he passes by daily without fail. His actions are always the same but the time rarely is. It intrigues him, so much so, during his breaks he attempts to follow the King around Dale. 

He follows him now, stood behind the fabric seller as the King strides through the Town Square. Head up. Eyes focused. His intent unknown. He does not converse with anyone; he shows no interest in the stalls and he has yet to see him purchase anything. He walks by shops but does not enter and he walks with purpose in the centre of the street and will not move for anyone. 

The townsfolk seem to have a sixth sense when it comes to the King, as they move from his path without so much as a glance in his direction. A shame then, that he did not possess this trait as he had turned and walked smack into him. He shakes his head, how they met, that night, none of that mattered anymore. The King wasn’t responsible for the breakdown of his marriage, the cracks were already there he was just unwilling to see them. 

He looks up at the clock tower and sees he has twenty minutes left of his break. He has nothing better to do and so he turns his gaze back to the street only to realise the King is gone. He strides, he forgets, and so he gives up his hiding spot and rushes past stalls trying to find him. He makes it to the foot of the steps leading to King Bard’s palace and climbs three to look around. The King has the ability to stand out even at his shorter stature but even so he cannot see him. 

His shoulders slump in defeat and he climbs down the steps. It is a foolish mission really, possibly criminal and he still does not know what he wishes to accomplish by it. He gives up his pursuit as there was always tomorrow and the gaping void that was his life to fill. 

He takes a side street back to the bakery but keeps his eye out for the King. He just wants to see him, to look at him and see if he looks back. It’s childish but the more Bofur pushes him away the closer he steps towards the King. It’s like being trapped between fire and ice and he’s tired of being cold. 

He doesn’t imagine he will see the King again, he probably returned to Erebor as he very much doubts he went towards the docks. He might have, he doesn’t know, but it would be very foolish to travel alone. It was foolish of him to walk the streets unaccompanied, as he was inviting trouble but then he remembers the King is trouble. 

He passes by a dead-end street and the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. 

“Hobbit.” He comes to a halt and looks over his shoulder. There, stood at the mouth of the alley with his back to the wall and powerful arms crossed over his massive chest was King Thorin. “You’ve been following me.” There’s no malice within his words just the truth. 

He shakes his head to the contrary. “Don’t deny it, this isn’t the first time I’ve seen you.” The King leaves the alleyway to come stand before him gazing down on him with indiscernible blue eyes. He trips over his words, grasping for plausible excuses but none come to mind. “Now why would a little hobbit follow me?” The King asks and slowly begins to walk around him. “What nefarious purpose could he have?” The King muses, continuing his journey, eyeing him from head to toe. He has never felt so exposed and it is thrilling. “What do you want little hobbit?” Thorin asks plainly, standing before him, his mouth so very close to his own. 

“I…I…” he stutters, unsure. 

“More?” The King suggests, his breath warm against his lips as he lowers his head in prelude to a kiss. Valar help him, he’s beautiful and his longing for him has become a physical ache.

But he’s married. 

He turns his head and the King’s lips graze his cheek before he straightens. His eyes have darkened and a scowl mars his lips but still he is devastatingly handsome. “Come, buy me a drink.” The King says holding out his hand. He stares at it unsure. He cannot take the King’s hand in public; few know him in the town but it only takes one person. 

The King is insistent that he take his hand and reluctantly he does, all the while wondering why Bofur found this so difficult. Thorin had no allegiance to him and he could take his hand, why couldn’t Bofur? 

He’s half dragged to the nearest tavern, a ramshackle old building that has one boarded up window and a fallen sign with peeling red letters obscuring the name of the establishment. The sturdy, weather-beaten oak door stands open in invitation and as they pass through Thorin drops his hand and proceeds to walk towards the alcove in the left corner of the building. 

He approaches the bar eyeing the six-foot four bald-headed barman whose bulging brown eyes were focused on the alcove where the King had disappeared into. His jaw is slack in surprise and his lips are parted revealing front yellowed teeth and those browning at the back. 

“Two ales please,” he asks politely while pushing the barstool aside making room for himself. This bar was not designed for someone of his stature but he would not allow himself to be belittled by circumstance. Instead, he rifles through his pocket searching for the appropriate coins while keeping his eyes on the scratched mahogany floor and away from the taverns only patron’s steady stare. 

Two tankards are placed before him, spilling froth into one another as they were full to the brim. He pays the two silvers to the barman who is still recovering from the shock of seeing the King and collects the two tankards. He normally has steady hands but the situation he finds himself in terrifies him to the core and so a trail of beer follows in his wake. 

The King is seated on a single chair, back to the mahogany screen that was built for seclusion. He places his tankard before him and sets his down as well as he seats himself across from the King, on a slashed and stained bench seat. He does not drink; he does not dare to dull his wits around a wily predator such as the King. His resolve was weak enough, his want palpable and his desire, punishing in its intensity. 

He shouldn’t be here and yet here he sits, eye to eye with the dwarf that occupies his every waking thought. “You never answered my question.” The King says, placing his tankard down and wiping the froth from his beard. “Why are you following me?” 

He hadn’t had a response for him then and he still does not have a response now and so he shrugs. The King leans forward, both arms on the table and the weight of his judgemental gaze forces him to lower his eyes. “Ah,” the King says, coming to a conclusion. “It seems I have done a disservice to you and for that, I apologise.” A disservice? He lifts his head in confusion. “You still wear that ring,” the King gestures to his left hand. “Why?” 

“Because I am married,” he answers lacking conviction. 

“And yet here we are, myself unwed and you with a husband that will not touch you.” He does not know how the King knows of that. “To think I was there at your sham of a wedding…”

“It wasn’t a sham.” He interrupts in protest. 

“A sham of a wedding,” the King continues. “I should have stood in protest, that was my error in judgement and I apologise for it.”

“Your disservice to me was your failure to stop my wedding? I wanted to get married, I love my husband!” He hisses beneath his breath. 

“But you love me more.” 

“Love you? I don’t even know you.” The King tilts his head with a look of disbelief before he smiles and quite intentionally runs his tongue over his lower lip and then winks. 

“Now that’s now strictly true is it? You know me, one might say as a dwarf knows his husband, as a real dwarf should know his husband.” He shifts on the bench uncomfortable. 

“I know you in the carnal sense but not in the spiritual.” He protests and Thorin sits back with his arms folded in front of his chest. 

“So you know your husband’s heart? How is that working out for you?” He feels something brush against his ankle but does not look down believing the owner might have a cat. “Does his heart keep you warm at night?” The King continues and the movement against his ankle moves up to his calf. Not a cat then. “Does his heart stir in you an untameable lust by its mere presence?” When had the King removed his right boot, he did not know but he feels his bare foot- tiny in comparison to his own- against his leg. “Does his heart bare you and lay you down upon the bed?” The King kicks at his knee making him part his thighs so he can press his foot against his inner thigh unbearably close to his engorged cock. He shifts uncomfortably, eye averted while his hand covers his mouth to stifle the wanton whines that try to pass his lips. “Does his heart fuck you like I did?” His foot presses against his erection and he is lost, shifting forward, desperate for the friction. 

The King wears a mask of indifference as if nothing untoward was happening beneath the table. He pushes his foot against him carefully to arouse not to injure and picks up his tankard to finish his drink. His own cheeks redden at the debauchery. He can’t stop his hips from moving in a parody of fucking and in the back of his mind he blames Bofur for debasing him in this way. His refusal of him has made him as desperate as a dog in heat and it is embarrassing to the point of heartbreak. 

It is with a stifled cry of both pain and pleasure that he finds relief soiling his own clothing with his release. Tears mist his eyes as he keeps his head down ashamed of himself, while the King cares very little. He does not judge and when he dares to lift his gaze the King is eyeing him with the same burning desire he remembers. He tries to articulate words and fails miserably and simply sits in silence as the King takes his tankard and drinks that as well. 

Thorin makes a show of swallowing and if he were able, he would have been stirred once more. As it is, he stifles another moan and momentarily hides his blushing face wondering when he stopped thinking of Thorin as just the King. It was easier to think of him as the King, Thorin was a person but the King could be an entity, a God, most likely of sex and fertility he would imagine. 

Thorin removes his foot and sets down the second empty tankard onto the table, licking his lips as though to capture the remnant taste on his lips. “I miss the taste of you,” Thorin says plainly and he shudders in response, imagining his head between his thighs as he runs his fingers through his dark silky tresses. 

Thorin turns as a steady stream of patrons begin to fill the bar, summoned by his presence. He looks back at him somewhat annoyed that their privacy had been intruded upon before an alluring smile crosses his lips. “Let’s get a room, my treat.” Thorin offers, willing to put his hand in his pocket and pay for something. His actions certainly explained how the rich stayed rich. 

“I…” he wants to, Valar help him, he wants to. “Can’t.” He breathes out in a whisper, the air leaving his lungs as though he was sucker punched. The smile fades from Thorin’s lips and he realises with dawning horror that he had just said no to the King of Erebor. 

“You can.” Thorin says angrily, blue eyes darkening reflecting an oncoming storm. 

“I’m married.” He pleads uselessly considering his actions only moments ago. 

“Very well, I shall dissolve your marriage.” 

“No!” His marriage wasn’t perfect, but now faced with its demise he deems it worth fighting for. There was still hope. Where there was love, there was still hope. 

“No?” The King questions and he suddenly fears for his safety. “I tire of your games. Come to me when you know your mind.” The King snaps and stands up with a slight tremor in his arm as if he wished to ball his hand into a fist. He has hurt him and he is angry. 

“Please, please sit down.” He begs but the King merely gives him a withering look and it is the King now, Thorin is long gone.

“You know where to find me.” The King then leaves and he is quick to follow, to apologise. The patron’s quietly watch as he chases the King from the bar and once outside the King stops abruptly and he crashes into him. His arms are caught and his lips are seized next and he surrenders to the punishing kiss and when he is able, he throws his arms around Thorin’s neck, running his fingers through his hair. 

Thorin breaks the kiss and the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. There’s desire in the King’s eyes but there’s malice too and his smile is a nasty self-satisfied smirk. Once he has his undivided attention, he turns his head to the left and he follows the King’s gaze and his heart drops. 

There in the street with a bouquet of red roses stands Bofur. His hazel eyes are misted and widened in disbelief and his lips tremble as if he were to sob. He drops his hands from the King’s neck and steps back, quickly looking down on himself and thankful that his release has stained his underwear and not the front of his trousers. 

Bofur simply shakes his head and tosses the roses towards him before turning and running away, the sounds of his distress echoing behind him. The King collects the roses and keeps them for himself. “You know where to find me.” He says once more and walks off in the opposite direction and his heart and mind is torn. 

He is married to Bofur and so he follows his heart. Dag might wonder where he had gotten to but since business picked up, the workforce grew by one and his presence should not be needed as desperately. Certainly not as desperately as Bofur needed him, or rather an explanation for his perceived infidelity. 

He goes home as there was nowhere else he could run to and sure enough Bofur is there. The kitchen table has been flipped over, the fruit bowl smashed and the fruit scattered across the floor. His destructive rage had ended there and he finds his husband curled up on his armchair sobbing into the upholstery. 

“I didn’t do anything,” he confesses. 

“You wanted to.” 

“Will you hate me for my thoughts now?” He snaps. The issues between them have festered for too long. “Yes I wanted to! Because my husband who I love will not touch me.” 

“So it’s my fault.” Bofur says uncurling himself. 

“No…just…I…” he struggles to find the words. “You will not touch me.” Bofur wipes his nose with his sleeve and shakes his head sadly. 

“I told you I do not love in that way. I declined your proposal three times and you swore to me that you did not mind. That you loved me enough, that I was enough.”

“I thought you were saving yourself for marriage.” Bofur turns to look at him sharply with narrowed eyes. 

“You were under no illusion but your own. I told you from the start, the thought of touching…” he shivers in disgust. “I can’t, but I was willing to try, for you. I promised to consummate our marriage and I did but it wasn’t enough. I am not enough for you!” 

“You are,” he protests dropping to his knees in front of Bofur and tries to grasp his hands but they are removed from his reach. “You can’t even hold my hand.” He says dejectedly and allows his own tears to fall. 

“You don’t understand how it feels, to touch, to be touched, it makes me want to tear my skin off. You think I don’t want to hold your hand? You think it doesn’t hurt me to share a bed with you and be unable to hold you in my arms? I want that too, but I just can’t.” 

“If you just try…”

“It’s not a phase! I won’t grow out of it. My skin crawled as I made love to you and I felt like a monster. I have never loved anyone as much as I love you and I can’t make love to you. It can’t be cured, it’s who I am and I thought you loved me for who I was.” He lowers his head. 

“I thought I loved you for who you were too.” He answers back quietly. 

“Bilbo?” Bofur asks, voice trembling, unsure. 

He looks at the ring on his left hand and with a heart-wrenching sob he removes it and places it on the floor. “Bilbo, don’t.” Bofur begs as he stands up and he leaves their home with a gaping hole in his chest where his heart used to be.


	9. I Gave You All

He shouldn’t have left without a word but what more was there to say? He loved Bofur, he did, but he couldn’t be in a relationship where he was not touched. He thought he could be, he had lied to himself, make believing that Bofur’s attitude would change once they consummated their marriage. Bofur had tried to tell him but he would not listen as he was so convinced his feelings would change. 

They haven’t, he knows that now and he can’t live that way. 

He lingers at the edge of the village as it is his respect for Bofur that stills him from rushing to the King. He doesn’t love Thorin but he does desire him and he knows given time he will love him possibly deeper than he’s ever loved anyone before. Not because he is the King, as the rumour mill will likely spread, but because he stirs things in him that Bofur left dormant. He bolsters his esteem with one smouldering glance and he touches him as though it were a privilege and every moment was cherished. 

Deciding enough time had elapsed, he leaves the village for the last time. He’d given up one home for Bofur, he could give up his second home too. He’d miss his armchair and his books and he imagines he would deeply miss Bofur too. So, he would leave him with his armchair and his books in the hopes that it brings him some comfort and there he would reside with them in his memories and in his heart. 

He comes to the fork in the road and mentally says goodbye to his old life while nervously welcoming his new one. He has walked up to Erebor before but never has it been so daunting and each new step he takes is harder than the last. It is hard to let go of the life he has known but he has done it before and he will do it again. His world was in front of him only memories were left behind. Resolute, he makes his way up the mountain and crosses the threshold into Erebor. 

Thorin had told him he would know where to find him, and he believed he was referring to his bedroom but he could not be sure and did not want to be so bold. Instead he looks around the mountain for a dwarf that might help and recognizes one from the arena. He is tall, taller than the King with a bald and tattooed head. His beard and moustache were brown and grew outward and twin axes were sheathed on his back. Dwalin, the crowd had chanted. Dwalin, he names him and approaches him cautiously coming across as small as possible. 

“Master dwarf?” He asks timidly and the dwarf lowers his head and gazes at him with unreadable hazel eyes. “Could you take me to see King Thorin please?” The dwarf arches his right eyebrow that has a scar through its centre. “He’s expecting me,” he goes on, given the dwarf’s distrust of him. For a moment he thinks he sees a minute shake of the dwarf’s head before he nods once, drops his crossed arms from his chest and walks down a corridor. 

He assumes he means to follow him and so he does, recognizing the journey in the reverse. His mouth is dry and his stomach is aflutter as they near Thorin’s room. He can barely contain his excitement to lay with the King once more, to taste his lips and more, so much more. 

Dwalin knocks three times, pauses and knocks twice more which he assumes is code. The door opens and there Thorin stands only in his leather trousers, unbuttoned, he notices and his hair is slightly mussed. There’s a redness to his lips that he imagines was caused by biting them as he pleasured himself, readying himself for this inevitable encounter. 

“Someone to see you.” Dwalin says gravely and takes his leave, shaking his head once more. Thorin looks down towards him and does a double take, seemingly surprised to find him at his door. 

“To what do I owe the pleasure of your company Bo…B-ba,” Thorin struggles to recall his name and glances at him helplessly.

“Bilbo.” He supplies but is overcome with a feeling of unease. 

“Bilbo, that’s the one.” Thorin nods to himself, appeased for remembering, but he hadn’t remembered. 

He shrugs it off, it was just a name. Thorin was a King who came across many people daily, that his memory bank must be full of names of people far more important than him. Despite his reasoning he still feels a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. 

He lifts his left hand in trepidation to reveal the absence of his ring. “I’ve left Bofur.” He confesses sadly, the enormity of his actions haven’t sunk in yet and he hopes Thorin understands the sacrifice he has made for him. 

“Good for you,” Thorin says cheerfully but it was not the response he had anticipated. He thought the King would be overcome with passion and would drag him into his room. There, his want would be so intense they would make love on the floor, too desperate for one another to reach the bed. 

“I’ve chosen and I want to be with you.” The sinking feeling intensifies as Thorin grins in response, not a smile, a grin seemingly mocking in nature and only confirmed by the rich laughter that followed it.

“Oh, little hobbit you are adorable and I’m flattered, truly, but…” he pauses to knock tears of mirth from his eyes. “Do you honestly think that I would marry you?” He laughs again, clutching his flat belly as if the laugher was torn from the very core of him and for a moment his head spins. He’s hallucinating, this can’t be happening. 

“B-but you said…” he stutters and pauses, unable to breathe as if the King had constricted his airways and was squeezing the life out of him by his cruelty. 

“I said that I was unwed,” the King interrupts. “Indeed, I am and will forever be.” He realises now that the King offered him nothing, it was all implication. He covers his face in despair, none of it was real, it was all implication to distract and confuse him. 

“Why?” He asks brokenly hoping the King understands he is questioning his actions towards him and not his view on marriage. 

“Why?” The King parrots back to him. “Why not?” He answers with a shrug, uncaring and disinterested. 

“That’s not an answer.” 

“Okay,” Thorin replies losing his smile. “How about this for an answer, you should have looked where you were fucking going.” He snarls bitterly and his eyes widen in realisation. 

“All of this because I walked into you?” Thorin shrugs. 

“That, and I wanted to fuck you. Lacklustre might I add, rubbish you might say.” He lacks honesty in his cruelty. He uses the same word he had used to comfort Bofur in revenge and nothing more. There truly was nothing more. Nothing had been real and he had sacrificed Bofur for a fantasy. 

“I left my husband for you.” He knows he sounds pitiful as he cries into his hands. He should leave but he wants the King to witness what he has done. 

“Don’t blame the end of your sham marriage on me just because I fucked you better than your husband ever could. That’s all it was B…Ba…”

“Bilbo,” he snaps as the King had forgotten his name again. 

“Bilbo. It was just sex and I can see that you’re upset so if you ever want a pity fuck…” He leaves the offer hanging while shoving his bedroom door wider in invitation while a feminine voice protests, her voice emanating from the bed. 

He shakes his head; he had been such a fool. He knew the first night meant nothing, Thorin was just exerting his power but then he stole an apple from him in the street and he came into his bakery. Why the ruse, why the pretence of courtship? Dag tried to warn him but he would not listen because he genuinely believed that Thorin was not so petty. How can a dwarf who claims himself a King be so needlessly cruel?

“Is that a no? Can I at least get a kiss goodbye?” Thorin licks his lips as if he might honour his request and a rage like he has never felt comes over him and he lashes out, slapping the King in the face. 

He’s restrained immediately as two muscular arms snake beneath his own and come up, raising and immobilising his arms as his attacker locks their fingers together behind his neck and pull him back against a solid body. He struggles in what he guesses is Dwalin’s arms and takes delight in the King’s reddened cheek and the surprise it has brought to his face. 

“Was any of it real?” He demands struggling anew. He wants to hurt the King as he has hurt him but his captor realises his intent and places his feet before his own preventing him from kicking out. 

There’s malice in the King’s eyes as he steps forward and grabs his chin roughly. “I would fuck you again in a heartbeat.” His words stir nothing in him but contempt and the kiss that he steals from his scowling lips is just as repulsive as his dark heart. 

He says nothing more, just casts a look to the dwarf that holds him and nods once before returning to the whore in his bed. “Calm down,” the dwarf whispers in his ear and it is indeed Dwalin who wrestles him away from the King’s room and to the very gates of Erebor. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.” The dwarf apologises and releases him. He loses his footing and falls onto the dirt. “Don’t come back again.” He snarls bitterly, for show he assumes as dwarves pass going on with their day but watching with keen interest. 

He curls in on himself and cries into his knees uncaring if he is making a spectacle of himself. The sinking feeling had expanded and now all he feels is hollow, as if he’s lost a part of himself and he could never be complete again. What had he been thinking, King’s falling for commoners? That was a bedtime story to tell the children. He was willing to love him; he had offered him his heart only for him to cast it away.

…like he had done to Bofur. 

He sits up and wipes away his tears. He has wronged Bofur in the most unforgivable way. He would make amends, he would return to the husband whom he loved, and he would repair their marriage whatever the cost. He will learn to love him again, properly this time, for the dwarf he was and not for the dwarf he wanted him to be. He’s been a terrible husband, he knows that now and he is willing to fight for his marriage, to change. 

He returns to the village he had thought he had seen the last of and makes his way home. The pantry door is unlocked and he enters the home- their home, and walks through the pantry into the kitchen. His ring sits on the up-righted table and he picks it up and puts it into his pocket.

“You’ve got some nerve,” Bofur says from the doorway leading into the livingroom. His voice and stance hardened by the cruelties he needlessly bestowed upon him. 

“I should have never left.” He confesses. 

“The King rejected you, didn’t he? Oh Bilbo I could have told you that.” 

“It’s not about him,” he protests and Bofur glares. 

“No, it’s about you. It has always been about you. You wanted to get married, you wanted to leave the Shire, you wanted a home to call yours, you you you you you. I’m wise to it now.”

“No, it’s about us.” He tries to correct him. 

“Us? If the King hadn’t rejected you there would be no us, so why is there an us now?” His words are wounding due to the accuracy of them. 

“I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you. No touching, that’s fine, our souls have mated our bodies don’t need to.” He nigh on begs. It would be enough; he would make it enough. He loved Bofur. 

“You’re willing to work on our marriage?” Bofur asks solemnly and at last he sees a ray of light, of hope for their future. He sees a glimmer of the carefree loving dwarf he knew before he had corrupted his heart. 

“Yes, a thousand times yes. I choose you.” Bofur nods and walks away before returning to him holding their red marriage ribbon, confusing him. 

“’You hold in your own hands the making or breaking of this union.’” Bofur recites their wedding vows and gently tugs on the ribbon. 

“Don’t,” he says, crying anew. 

“I will not be second best.” Bofur says resolutely and pulls the ribbon untying the bond of their marriage. “My love is not enough for you and you only return because your love is not enough for the King.” 

“I don’t love him!”

“Better if you did, then maybe I could understand. You threw this away, us away, for nothing. Don’t stand there and say you love me when I know only I speak the truth when I say it. I love you, Bilbo, and that is my burden to bear.” Bofur then removes his ring in a callous display. “I think you should leave now.” Bofur says, heartless in his own misery.

“This house belongs to me too.” He stands defiant and Bofur regards him with shining dark eyes. He had shattered his heart and he wished for him to know-to see- the heartache he has caused.

“What more do you want to take from me, Bilbo?” Bofur asks sadly as his anger gives way to his grief. He realises he is being cruel. He has done this and he deserves Bofur’s ire. He lowers his head in defeat. There can be no reconciliation. He can see the monster that he is reflected in Bofur’s soulful eyes. Eyes that he had made cry. 

“I shall pack a bag, I ask only for Myrtle, you may even keep the cart.” Bofur nods once in acquiesce and allows him to walk by into the livingroom and then into the room that had once been their bedroom. If there are any clothes of his in the hamper, he leaves them and instead empties his wardrobe and draws, surprised that all of his belongings fit into one brown sack. He collects his toothbrush from the bathroom and a single towel and the money he was saving for a new stable and leaves both rooms. 

“Where will you go?” Bofur asks sadly as he collects Myrtle’s food from the pantry. Despite everything he has done to him Bofur still cared for him and he was entirely undeserving of him. 

“I can’t stay here, Erebor, Dale,” he waves in both directions as fresh tears spill from his eyes. “I’ll talk to Dag, stay with him for tonight and then I’ll cross the river in the morning.” He turns to leave and then pauses. This was his last chance to make amends and say goodbye. He turns finding Bofur weeping into his hands. “I know you don’t believe me but I do love you, Bofur, and I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. You’re more than enough for me and I never deserved you. I free you of our marriage, find someone who loves you as you deserve and keep away from idiots like me.” He laughs within a sob and wipes at his tears and nose with his handkerchief. “Find someone who will give you the world, the way I wanted to.” 

“You were my world.” Bofur sobs bitterly and the last pieces of his heart shatter into dust. He wants to return his sentiment but Bofur’s heart was too pure and he would take him back and he was unworthy of him. Bofur is not his world and love was never enough for them. 

He leaves the ramshackle house and a broken dwarf within it and collects Myrtle and leaves the village to the chorus of Bofur’s wails. Each howling sob feels like a dagger penetrating his skin and he deserves every bit of the pain he is dealt. 

He stops at the fork in the road and casts one last longing look towards Erebor and then he turns to look back at his village. A place for the hopeless and the broken dreams, but he had been happy there once. He fishes his wedding ring from his pocket and places it onto the signpost to mark the location where his heart had become torn and he had become lost. 

“Come on, Myrtle,” he says, holding her bridle and leading her away from a love that was and a love that never could be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this completely self-indulgent story. I didn’t imagine this story would get much love due to the tags but I needed to write something sad as The Best Laid Plans is really light-hearted (for me) so I had to even the balance. 
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> This story was inspired by the first night scene in Braveheart and the opening scene in the Hobbit where Bilbo is giving the Durin backstory and a young Thorin stands proud but there’s an arrogance about him. If there was no dragon and no hardship, then who would check that arrogance? So Thorin is basically the Tony Stark of Erebor.


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